The maid who brought the tea found me already in bed, my expression serene. I sipped while she scurried about hanging things. But as soon as I'd finished, she whisked the tray away, her expression one of anticipation.
I kept my face serene. At least the servants weren't aware that my husband was avoiding my bed. But where had he gone? Why hadn't he at least gone to his room for the night?
No sounds came through the adjoining door, and I knew Richard was elsewhere in the castle. Probably with that mother of his.
I nursed my anger long into the night, another habit Papa had deplored and which I had tried to eradicate. But in this case it had one advantage. It kept me from remembering that in the morning I must face the dowager duchess of Greyden.
Chapter Three
Morning found me still tired and feeling rather put upon, but I pushed such thoughts aside. There must have been good reason for my husband's absence on our wedding night. I determined to make the best of things and subdue my temper, at least until I had heard his explanation.
I washed and donned my walking dress of gray merino, making a mental note to order some good warm stuffs for dresses. Though it was nearly summer, the castle was damp and chilly, and I did not intend to go about constantly shivering.
I pulled my cashmere tighter around my shoulders and surveyed myself once more in the cheval glass. Then I sighed. Where was the radiant face of a happy bride? The woman who looked back at me was sad and unhappy, her face white under the high-piled red hair. I pinched my cheeks, trying to put a little color in them, and turned toward the door.
I was not positive I could find my way back to the great staircase, but I determined to try. Certainly I did not want to be in this room when curious servants came to tend it. On impulse I leaned over and further disarranged the covers on the great bed. At least I could present the outward picture of a proper wedding night. With this in mind, I pulled my features into what I hoped was complacency and opened the door.
The corridor was still dark and gloomy, but at least it was possible to see, and the shadows seemed less threatening. I turned left, back toward the great staircase. Suddenly, without any sound or warning, he was there. A youth in black clothing blocked my path.
His huge dark eyes searched my face, and I felt a chill creep up my back. There was no welcome in those eyes, no good will. There was only animosity. “So you're that witch's sister,” he said in a voice that rang like a death knell.
"I am Vanessa D—” I began, then belatedly remembered my new station in life. “I am the duchess of Greyden,” I replied, returning his look without bothering to mask my distaste. “And who are you?"
He laughed, a most uncomfortable sound that held no merriment and, indeed, promised evil. “Some call me Penrose.” His black eyes gleamed with unholy glee. “Some call me the youngest Greyden son.” His full lips drew back in a smile straight from hell. “And some call me Satan's spawn."
A frisson of panic touched me. There was no denying he looked evil-born. Nothing relieved the dour blackness of his clothing, and even his skin seemed gray and ashen, as though he had risen from Hades’ very depths.
I shook my head and called up my temper, a formidable weapon as Papa had often remarked. Looking straight into those gleaming black eyes, I laughed softly. It was not my best cutting laugh, but he needn't know that. “As far as I'm concerned, you're simply a foolish young man. And, if you're indeed a Greyden son, you are most impolite to greet your brother's wife in this rude fashion."
Surprise flickered briefly in his eyes, but then he laughed again. How I was to hate the sound of that laughter in the weeks to come. “That witch's sister deserves no better welcome,” he said. “Dear Caroline was not exactly beloved here."
I refused to let him frighten me. Was I not a duchess?
"I am not Caroline,” I replied, my tone flat. “And where I come from, people are judged on their own merits. Now, if you'll excuse me...” I swept by him haughtily.
I made my way down the great stairs, my mind awhirl with questions. Where was Richard? Why hadn't he told me about this younger brother? Or that his mother disapproved of our union? I tried to remember what I'd heard about Richard's family, but I could recall nothing. Caroline's interest had been only in his title and his wealth. And, of course, ten years ago this Penrose had been still in the nursery.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the smell of food. At least the people in this castle ate, I told myself, trying to dispel the sense of impending disaster that meeting with the youth had raised.
Fortunately, the smell of fried bacon issued from a small room down a corridor to the right. As I entered, I spied the figure of a man at the crenellated windows. His back was to me, and sunlight gleamed on his thick black hair.
Longing and tenderness rushed over me, but they had to battle with irritation. I was not accustomed to such treatment as I had lately been receiving. “Richard!” I cried, hurrying to him. “I have met the most astonishing young man. And why—"
As I reached him, he turned, and in spite of my anger, I walked directly into his arms. This was my husband. And I loved him dearly.
His kiss threatened to burn the skin from my lips, and his arms pressed me close to his lean, hard body. Waves of feeling pounded over me, and I clung to him, inhaling his familiar scent.
But suddenly a chill came over me. Something was not right. There was a strange sweetness about him, a flowery scent that seemed almost womanly. And Richard had never kissed me like this before. I struggled and freed myself from his arms.
My knees quivered as I stood there, staring up into Richard's face. I blinked and rubbed my eyes. It was Richard's face—and yet it was not. Some indefinable thing told me this man was not my husband.
"Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Thank you for the welcome salutation."
My head rang, my blood pounded. The voice was Richard's, too, but not his. “Who—” 1 began.
"What are you doing here? I thought we were rid of you.” The angry male voice came from behind me. I whirled, not believing my eyes. My husband stood there. His dark brows were furrowed, and his frown made me quiver, even though it wasn't directed at me.
"Mama wrote me the happy news,” said the man who wasn't Richard and yet looked like him. “So I came home to see that my new sister-in-law receives a proper welcome."
He extended his hand to me and smiled. The warmth in his expression was as welcome as his words. “Congratulations, Vanessa. I hope you'll be happy here."
This was the first real gesture of welcome from anyone in this impossible family. Even though I felt Richard's displeasure, I felt constrained to return the man's greeting. “Thank you.” His touch was warm, but I drew back quickly, mindful that this man's lips had been on mine in a salutation that could hardly be called brotherly.
"When are you leaving?” Richard's question was abrupt, his tone bordered on insulting. I turned to stare at him. How could he behave so rudely?
The stranger smiled at me. “Careful, Richard, you're shocking your little bride. Mama demanded my presence. And you know I can refuse her nothing."
He turned toward me. “No doubt she knows I've arrived. She'll be expecting me.” He moved toward the doorway, and I saw now that he looked younger than Richard, his gaze more open, his features showing less wear. “Somehow I suspect you didn't tell your new wife much about us,” he said. Then he was gone, and I was left staring at my husband.
For long moments he stood silent, apparently fighting some inner emotion. I tried to wait, but my temper was up. Why hadn't he told me what to expect?
"Richard...” I began.
He turned his dark eyes on me and smiled ruefully.
I felt again the pull of my longing for him. I shoved it down. I meant to have an explanation, I was certainly entitled to one.
"That was my brother Roland. My twin brother."
"Twins!” The word rushed out of me. “But why didn't you tell me?"
"
He had left here. I had hoped he would never return.” His features were grim.
My breath caught in my throat. “Your own twin?"
"My own twin,” he repeated, his voice flat. “But, since he has returned, we will have to put up with him."
What a strange choice of words. I could not expect every family to be happy. But—twins! I had thought twins bore a special bond. And this Roland was warm and friendly, not like the dowager who hadn't deigned to greet me or the impossible young man who had blocked my way to breakfast.
"Richard.” I was conscious of the rising inflection of my voice, a sure sign that my temper was also rising, but I had had enough of surprises, and I did not attempt to curb its sharpness. “Who else,” I demanded, “lives in this castle?"
My husband smiled, but there was no light in his eyes. “I'm afraid you've the right to be upset, Vanessa, though I really didn't think Roland would return. And I had hoped that the dowager...” He paused, his look pained.
I felt a moment's tenderness, but I pressed on. “I met a most peculiar young man upstairs,” I announced, letting my expression reflect my distaste.
"That was Penrose. Don't mind him.” Richard's eyes avoided mine, as though he wanted to hide something from me.
But I didn't mean to be put off. “He said he was the youngest Greyden son. Are there still other members of your family that I know nothing of?"
Richard turned toward me and took my hands in his. “Only Rosamund, poor soul."
"Poor soul?” I echoed. What kind of marriage had I made?
Richard's hands were warm on mine, warm as his brother's lips.
"Who is Rosamund?” I asked, trying to banish the feelings that had crept into my body. I had returned Roland's kisses only because I thought the man my husband. It was a natural mistake. And, actually, the fault should be laid at Richard's door. He had left me unprepared to deal with such a person.
"Rosamund is my sister,” Richard said. “She suffered a loss when she was young. A terrible loss. It affected her mind."
A coldness seeped into my bones. What else didn't I know about this family? How foolishly I had agreed to share this man's life. “Her mind?"
Richard raised one of my hands to his lips and kissed it. “Don't look at me like that, Vanessa. Rosamund is harmless."
"Harmless?” My voice was still rising, my temper with it. I jerked my hand free from his and glared at him. “Exactly what is wrong with this sister of yours?"
He did not try to reclaim my hand—and foolishly, then, I wished that he would—nor did his expression change. My temper did not seem to engender any answering anger in him. “When she was seventeen,” he said, coming to stand at my side, “she lost her heart to a young man. My father felt the man was unsuitable and made it worth his while to seek greener pastures."
I nodded. Many fathers had no doubt done the same. But if the young man had gone, he could not have loved Rosamund so much.
Richard's expression grew more troubled. “Rosamund refused to believe that he had taken the money. She insisted the duke had had him killed."
I could scarcely believe my ears. “She believed her father capable of murder?"
Richard nodded. “She was sure he had paid someone to do it. I tried to convince her otherwise. I saw the fellow later in London, but she would not believe me.” He shook his head. “How she has suffered."
"But surely your mother—"
The anguish on my husband's face stopped my words.
"You may as well know now, Vanessa. The dowager is mother to only one of us. Rosamund and I mean nothing to her. To all intents, Roland is her only child."
"But Pen—"
"'Softly, love, softly. I'll come to thee soon. Darkness won't harm me.’”
The crooning song came from outside the door, the voice so slight and wavering one would have thought the singer elderly and frail. But when she entered, I saw a woman of indiscriminate age. Her rich sable hair, pulled back harshly, was the same color as her severe mourning garments.
"Good morning, Rosamund.” Richard greeted his sister with warmth and affection, but her eyes held no welcome for him. Huge dark eyes, their depths haunted, stared out of a face as pale as winter's snow and just as cold.
"It's all right, beloved.” The woman spoke to the vacant air beside her, putting her hand out to touch an arm that wasn't there. Revulsion shuddered over me as she gazed into nothingness. The huge dark eyes became earnest and tender. “I won't let anyone hurt you,” she said softly. “We'll be together always."
"Rosamund.” Richard reached out to touch her, and she looked up, her eyes widening with apprehension. “You promised,” she cried. “You promised."
"Rosie, really, it's all right."
The childhood name seemed to calm her, and she nodded. “Yes, Papa is gone. He can't hurt anyone now.” She turned again to the empty space. It was terrifying to see the look of tenderness and love she lavished upon nothing. “He can't hurt anyone anymore. Ever again."
Her voice grew softer, and she raised her eyes, bringing them to bear directly on me. “He's in hell, you know. He was a wicked, wicked man.” She smiled, and I shivered within the warm circle of Richard's arm. “He's going to burn forever. I'm glad."
The childish simplicity of her statement was almost more shocking than the words themselves. I was speechless. It was hard for me, who dearly loved my papa, to sympathize with a woman who thought hers capable of murder and who actually relished the thought of him burning in hell.
Fortunately, my lack of words made no difference to Rosamund. Her gaze fell and she turned away. “Come, beloved,” she whispered softly, putting out a hand to clasp an imaginary one. “We'll go find Penrose. He's such a fine boy. So good at lessons. And he dearly loves his mama."
Rosamund left the room as quietly as she had entered it, all her attention focused on the vacant air she supposed contained her lover.
I shivered again, and Richard drew me closer. The heat of his body was comforting, and I found that my anger toward him had disappeared. Rosamund was indeed a poor soul. And what man, going courting, lays bare all his family's darkest secrets? Still ... there were too many secrets here for my liking.
I turned toward my husband. “Richard, I—"
He bent his head toward me, his dark eyes warm with affection, and forgetting my questions, I lifted my lips to his. Our mouths touched. Sweetness like—
"So here you are.” The voice was harsh, more like that of a fishwife than a duchess. It grated on the nerves like chalk drawn down a blackboard.
Richard stiffened, and I jumped, startled by this intrusion into our embrace. The voice was easily recognized, however, and I found myself transported back to the only other occasion I had seen the dowager. Her curt command still rang in my ears. “Get out of my way, you impossible child."
I straightened my shoulders, reminding myself that I was no longer a child. I was a full grown woman, the duchess of Greyden, and Richard's wife. The latter, especially, gave me courage.
"Good morning,” I said, turning to face her.
She did not return my greeting. Eyes the color and texture of ice traveled over me, and it was only with difficulty that I kept myself from shrinking back against my husband.
The dowager duchess was a small woman, impeccably gowned in silver-gray, her graying hair skillfully dressed, but her majestic carriage and dignified mien were marred by the coldness of her eyes and her expression of complete contempt.
Finally, after long moments during which I drew solace from the nearness of Richard's body, the dowager spoke. “So this is her sister. This is the woman you've brought here to supplant me."
I gasped. I could not help it. Such rudeness was shocking in the extreme. If her eyes had really been the icicles they resembled, I should have been instantly impaled. As it was, I merely moved a trifle closer to my husband.
I felt Richard pull himself to his full height. “You mistake me, Mother,” he said with admirable coolness. “I had
no intention of supplanting you. I brought Vanessa here for one reason. She is the woman I love."
His words started a warm glow deep within me. This was his first real mention of his feelings for me, and I gloried in this public statement.
The dowager shrugged her elegantly clad shoulders. “I thought you loved the other one."
The way she pronounced the words made them as insulting as any I'd ever heard.
Richard's arm tightened around me protectively, and I knew he wanted to comfort me. I smiled up at him as best I could. “Come, Richard,” I said, determined to behave in a normal fashion. “Let us have some breakfast. The bacon smells especially good."
Actually, food was the farthest thing from my mind. How could I have an appetite when my new world was all so threatening? Not a person in this place had been glad to see me.
For a moment I recalled the touch of warm lips on mine. I tried to push the memory away. The kiss I had shared with Richard's twin had been a mistake. That was all.
The man beside me, the man whose strong arm was around me, he was the man whose kisses I should be remembering—except that I had not known many of them, I thought with a bitterness that would have alarmed Papa. And I still had no idea why my husband had left me to spend my wedding night in solitude.
The dowager's eyes were still upon me. Cold, speculative, angry. I could not help wondering at such obvious hatred. I had done nothing to this woman—except that one time as a child when I had inadvertently blocked her way. Yet now she gazed on me as though I were one of the world's lowest and most loathsome creatures.
I remained close to Richard. How could he live with such a hateful person in his household? It was obvious he had told me the truth. His mother did not care for him at all. Indeed, no one in this place seemed to care for him. No one but me.
I put my hand on his sleeve as we moved toward the well-set sideboard. Under my fingers I felt the faintest trembling, yet a glance at his face showed me that it revealed no emotion whatsoever.
Well it shouldn't, I thought, anger making me catch my breath. Richard was the master of this household, the eldest son, on his shoulders rested the responsibility for this entire family. Yet each of them seemed intent on making his life miserable. I could not, for the life of me, determine why this should be so.
The Lost Duchess of Greyden Castle Page 3