by Deana James
The earl looked over his shoulder. "Ah, embarrassed before the servants. Nonsense. My servants have been hired for their discretion. Isn't that right, Piers?"
The viscount pushed back from the table and stomped to the sideboard. Then he collared a decanter and a glass. He brought them back to the table with him and threw himself into his chair.
If a look could have killed, the earl's gaze would have burned him where he sat. When Piers defiantly sloshed the brandy into the glass, Larne turned his attention back to Vivian. "A little blue-eyed girl just like yourself, my dear." His voice changed to the silky-smooth seduction she had heard before. "A sturdy little red-haired boy. Did you know Piers was almost carrot-headed when he was child? A charming boy. Eager, intelligent, mischievous. Wouldn't you like a pair like that?"
She looked from one man to another. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.
The earl chuckled softly, never taking his eyes off his new daughter-in-law. "There, Piers. She's agreeable. What are you waiting for?" He leaned toward her. "My dear, you may have to help my tardy son. Now that you know the way of it, perhaps you could visit him?"
Her cheeks blazed. She crushed her napkin beside her plate, and started to rise.
The earl raised his hand. "Now, don't fly off in a rage, my dear. Finish your dinner. And think about it."
Piers turned white to the lips. He tossed an ounce of fiery liquid into the back of his throat. "Before God, Larne, you go too far. I will not tolerate—”
"With that in your stomach, you can tolerate anything," his father interrupted contemptuously.
During the serving of the next course, the charged silence grew. Vivian stared from one man to the other. Was this to be the rule for the dinner hour in her new life? How could such hatred and contempt exist in the same household for much longer without violence erupting?
The Earl of Larnaervon stared at the slice of roast beef on his plate. From its faintly pink center to its crusty outer edge, he could find no fault with it. As the footman ladled a piquant sauce out beside it, he smiled again at his daughter-in-law. "I have heard reports of your doings, madam.**
Vivian tensed. She could well imagine what sort of reports Emma Felders had brought him.
"Would you like to hear some of them?"
"Not if they're going to be lies, Larne," Piers interceded. He stared hard at the open doorway. Vivian could see that the housekeeper was back, listening in the shadows.
"Oh, I very much doubt them to be lies, my boy. Just differences of opinion." Larne took an appreciative sip of a fine Beaujolais that had been left to breathe for just the right amount of time. "For example, I understand you have been interrupting the regimen of the house to a disastrous degree. The servants it seems are quite exhausted by your incessant demands. You have, according to a source close at hand, criticized the cook until he has threatened to quit."
"No great loss," Piers gritted. "A farmer serves better swill to hogs."
Ignoring his son, Larne cut himself a bite of the tender roast beef and forked it into his mouth. "Fortunately, for my digestion tonight, he decided to wait. This seems quite edible, so perhaps he has reconsidered. I would appreciate your tasting the roast tonight."
Nervously, Vivian cut herself a bite. The beef was done to perfection, succulent and flavorful. The mild horseradish sauce complemented without overpowering the taste.
"Is it good?" the earl asked.
Vivian nodded, her expression puzzled.
"I'm glad you find it to your liking. I can taste nothing, as you no doubt became aware last night. The accident that crippled me also smashed my nose. While a clever doctor was able to straighten it out to look quite like what it was before, he was not able to do anything about the nerves there. I can taste-salt, sugar, bitter, and sour-but the sense of smell which makes food distinctive is gone alas forever."
Vivian could almost pity him. Still something in the calculated way he looked at her made her realize he was gauging her reactions. She glanced across the table at Piers, whose mouth was curved in a sneer.
"We’ve heard it all before, Larne. No one feels sorry for you. You know why you're served the food you're served. Your whore—”
The earl gave a bark of laughter. "Watch your tongue in front of your bride's delicate ears. Wasn't that what you told me yesterday evening? Vivian, my dear, what shall we do with your husband? He seems almost beyond the touch of polite society."
The new Viscountess Polwycke had come to realize that she sat in the middle of a hornet's nest. Perhaps she was just as well off unable to speak. Neither man could demand that she take sides. Unfortunately, her stomach had clenched and unclenched so many times that she had completely lost her appetite. Swallowing hard, she stared down at her plate.
Piers took a long drink of brandy. No longer white, his face now appeared flushed with blood. Vivian observed the knuckles of his clenched and trembling fist as he sought to control his mounting anger and resentment. The other hand cradled the brandy glass and swirled it in a steady circular motion as if he sought to hypnotize himself with its contents.
Millard came to Vivian's side. As he topped off her wineglass, he gave a faint deliberate nudge of her elbow. Vivian glanced up and met his eyes, kind and encouraging in his otherwise impassive face. A small warm spot of gratitude grew in her breast. A faint nod of his head and he was gone, but the compliment was delivered. The food was good. Evidently the cook and the butler, as well as Addie, were trying to please their new mistress. Even if they were doing so to thwart and anger Mrs. Felders, they were still pleasing her and making her a lot more comfortable.
Likewise, the earl had not exactly sided with Mrs. Felders. His comments with regard to the woman's tales had been neither positive nor negative. Heartened, she determined to adopt an eat-or-starve attitude. She would devote her attention solely to her food while ignoring as best she could the atmosphere of the room.
No sooner made than her resolution was interrupted by the earl. "Vivian," he said silkily. "My dear, I leave the subject of domestic activity which-albeit fascinating-is not a great favorite of mine with this one thought. Manage to give me a grandson and you can turn the house over and shake out the contents onto the beach for all I care. To that end I shall instruct my housekeeper. Do I make myself clear?'*
She met his eyes and shivered at the steely look she read there.
"Do you understand?"
She nodded. Her cheeks were hot, but she was going to have to get used to the earl's personal questions. She took a deep breath and finished her food.
Across the table Piers still scowled from under his brows, but Vivian would not look at him again. Disgusted and more than half drunk, he ran his left hand through his hair. The thoughts he directed toward his wife were not pleasant. Although he could not blame his drinking on her, he had come to the inebriated conclusion that had she been more receptive, more cooperative, she would have accompanied him into the garden last night for a breath of fresh air. She should have waited while his head cleared and then taken him into her bed.
Tonight he had already promised her that he would come to her. Were it not for his promise, however, he would avoid her like the plague. His father would not tell him what to do. He had made love on demand once. He would be damned if he would perform like a prize ram for Larne's heir. His thoughts whirled and grew murkier with each passing minute as the brandy in his bloodstream depressed his spirit.
Perhaps he should eat something, just to keep up his strength. Leaving the empty brandy glass, he began to eat the excellent beef and Yorkshire pudding. His spirits lifted a bit with the ingestion of food, and he sat up straighter, paying more attention to his plate. Again he glanced across the table at his silent wife. Their eyes met as she raised hers from her plate to reach for her glass. His angry stare of a few minutes ago was replaced by a slight smile. He forked another bite of food into his mouth and she smiled at him.
No words were spoken through the remainder of the course. As th
e footman cleared away for the sweet to be served, Lord Alexander raised his head from between his shoulders and peered at his son. Piers sat with his shoulder turned away from the head of the table. One elbow propped him up; his eyes stared moodily into the heart of the candles. When the butler approached with dessert, he was waved away.
Larne's stare shifted to Vivian, who likewise had now presented him with a side front, her eyes carefully avoiding both of her dinner companions. One small white hand rested on the cloth where her fingernail traced the pattern in the damask.
Feeling pervertedly pleased at having cowed them both, the old man cleared his throat in the manner of one making an announcement of great import. "Piers, the Spanish Girl comes tonight after midnight."
The long body stiffened. With a visible effort it turned and straightened in the chair. The viscount blinked, then raked all ten fingers through his dark red hair. "So," came the wet slurred whisper. "So. Tell me, Larne. Do you wish me to bed my lady before or after I handle the family business?"
"Insolent bastard."
"Ah, but I'm not a bastard,"Piers pointed out. "And you don't wish I were. Do you, old man?" The alcohol had roughened and numbed the vocal cords. He coughed hoarsely.
“Millard!” the earl called.
"Mlord."
"Prepare a pot of strong, black coffee. Send for Watkins. He’ll have to get his charge sober enough to ride. That is”—he turned to Piers—”if you're to be gone and back before the morning tide."
"By that I take it I am to ride my horse first and my wife later." Piers rose from the table, staggering slightly. His mocking bow to his father overbalanced him and he had to catch himself with his palm on the table. "My apologies, lady wife. But, you see, the Earl of Larnaervon has spoken. Does the Girl land in the inlet?"
"Beddoes is having her brought in farther up the coast. The garrison commander has been asking questions in the village."
"Ah. A long ride indeed." Piers swayed and belched softly. "Hope I'm up to it." He reached for the brandy glass and drained it, staggering backward and knocking over his chair.
Larne pushed himself to his feet. His yellowed knobby knuckles pressed against the tablecloth. "Give me a grandson," he muttered to Vivian. "A grandson."
Mrs. Felders had come into the dining room behind the butler, now she hovered behind the earl's chair, a contemptuous smile on her face as she watched Piers's swaying figure.
"Where in the hell is that valet?" the earl growled over his shoulder. "See what's holding him up."
Vivian too rose from her chair and threw down her napkin. Whoever the Spanish girl was, she seemed to have put a cap on the dinner. Without speaking to either of her dining companions, Vivian sought to slip from the dining room.
Her husband's hand fell on her shoulder. The hot, moist fingers scorched the skin over her collarbone. He staggered slightly. For a moment she felt more than the weight of his hand and put out her own to steady herself against the paneling. She did not turn but stared down at the hand on her shoulder and then back up at him.
His dark eyes, glowing like anthracite, hardened as he correctly read her disgust of him and his condition. He straightened but did not let go of her shoulder. "Madam wife," he spoke steadily in a whisper, "as you've heard, duty calls. And when the earl speaks, a man can do no more than obey."
Millard and Watkins entered at that moment.
"Get him off her," the earl barked angrily. "Now he wants to make love. Fool."
Watkins came to the viscount's side. "Milord—”
"In a moment." He moved his hand to clasp the side of her neck. He could feel the pulse throbbing there, feel her contempt despite his intoxicated state. "When I return, Vivian, I promise to come back to join you in your bed. Be warm and willing for me. I assure you a ride in the icy air will sober me up amazingly."
Her heart pounded in her chest. He was very drunk, had deliberately made himself so. Thank God for the reprieve, whatever it might be. She nodded.
With a mocking smile to her and then to the earl, Piers released her shoulder and allowed the valet to lead him out.
Vivian slipped out of the dining room behind them. In the hall she caught her skirts in her hands and fled as though pursued by demons. She had set her first step on the foot of the staircase when she heard his laugh, a low, menacing sound devoid of humor.
Looking back over her shoulder, she felt her heart pound more violently than before. Piers was standing outside the dining-room door, his form lighted from the side by a branch of candles. His wine-red hair and velvet coat glowed in the muted light. One side of his face was in darkness; the other, a study in light and shadow. A high pale forehead, a shadowed circle beneath the eyebrow, a curving jut of cheekbone above a hollowed cheek, a straight, determined line of jaw. The singular impression on her sensitive nerves was one of fierce implacability.
With a terrified gasp, she hiked her skirts even higher and ran up the stairs.
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“The tide's changing, Captain."
"It shouldn't be much longer then. Check your weapons, men." Rory MacPherson sat his horse on the headland. His men had deployed themselves on the road less than a mile below Larnaervon castle. From his vantage point he could see the stretch of white sand beach clear beneath the ice-ringed moon.
"Shipments at regular intervals," Dawlish had said. And department information had reported a flurry of activity aboard at least two of the seedier sloops in Le Havre.
Of course, they could have been legitimate merchants making trade voyages, but the nature of their cargoes-brandy, silks, and laces-the very items guaranteed to make a quick turnover among the English gentry had all but confirmed that they were smuggling vessels.
As MacPherson watched, a lantern flashed in the Lamaervon stables. A few minutes later a couple of horsemen came galloping down the road. At the trail to the beach they turned off and began to descend.
"Move down the cliffs, men. Quietly, now, on your life. We want to be on the sand by the time they reach it, but not so close that they can see us and signal the ship to pull out. They’ve got to be unloading the goods. If they offer any resistance, shoot. They mustn't get away." MacPherson dismounted, tied his horse, and selected a path of descent.
The gale blowing from the water cut his face and made his eyes water. Coast patrol was a terrible job. The sort of thing a Scotsman would get stuck with. If he managed to nab this smuggler, he might expect a promotion and a better position. His boot slipped on a wet rock and he slid a couple of yards through the clay and bracken. With a mild curse, he stopped himself and moved on more cautiously.
On the headland the soldiers had just vacated, another lantern flashed once, twice.
"Now." The viscount ducked his head as he guided his stallion out of the stable. He and a half-dozen stalwarts loped their horses across the meadow and up to the road above the castle. "Far enough, lads," he called. "Whip 'em up."
The band of men galloped up the coast to meet the Spanish Girl.
Chapter 14
Tucked beneath the covers, the upper half of her body propped up by several feather pillows, Vivian stared into the fire still burning strongly on the hearth. Her silver braid lay over her left shoulder outside of the covers, for all the world like a princess in a medieval painting from the Book of Hours.
She lay just as Addie had arranged her when she had helped her mistress into bed. But Vivian's stillness was false. Every nerve in her body sang with tension; her ears were tuned for the slightest sound. Her hands nervously plucked at the lace edge of the sheet.
Midnight tolled and then one and two. The fire died, and with it the tension changed to exhaustion. Several times she had thought she had heard footsteps on the stairs, once in the hallway outside, but no one came to her room, nor to the room next door. During the long hours she had reasoned with herself and lectured herself about how she must remain calm, and that she really had nothing to worry about.
Afte
r all, hundreds of women had gone to their marriage beds without knowing, much less liking, their husbands. From queens to peasant girls the whole great sisterhood of married women had all faced the inevitable first time and most had not had any say in their husbands. She would endure as they had done and bear children whom she could love and cherish.
Over and over she told herself that the terrible experience of a couple of days ago-had it been only a couple of days-was not at all how it would be. He had been rushed. She had been unprepared for any of it.
He had promised it would be different. When she had burst into his room and demanded that he make love to her- She could feel herself growing hot with shame. After it was all over, he had wanted to continue and do it the proper way.
He had always been kind to her. He was an unhappy man who would not hurt someone who had never done him any harm. Only when he had been drinking... She pushed that thought firmly away. His kisses were not unpleasant.
Despite her own council, her thoughts kept returning inexorably to the pain she had suffered that first time. How could he know he would not hurt her? He was not a woman. Presumably he would have no idea if she would ever be big enough to accommodate him. Perhaps they would never fit. Perhaps he was too big?
Nervous rigors shook her body. Her forehead felt hot as fire; her feet and hands, cold as death. To keep from crying out, she gritted her teeth until her jaws ached. The wind soughed against the windows.
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