Eight
LILLIANA PUT THE finishing touches on her latest creation, a still-life portrait of a basket stuffed with red apples. She stepped back from the canvas, and cocking her head to one side, eyed it critically. Apples. How perfectly boring.
Frowning, she tossed her brush aside and wiped her hands on the apron tied beneath her bosom. Having painted every conceivable object at Longbridge, she was now reduced to apples. Lilliana glanced irritably about the orangery—the walls were covered with her paintings, as were those of the house, the quarters above the stables, and the guest house. Paintings of trees and horses and houses and servants. What she had not brought from Blackfield Grange, she was quickly creating. For weeks now she had done nothing but paint, welcoming the task that filled the endless hours of her lonely existence. But the weight of emptiness was pressing down on her harder and harder, and painting, which had once given her such solace, no longer filled the void.
Apples, for heaven’s sake!
Dear God, she had to do something! She suddenly jerked the strings of her apron free, tossed the garment aside, and marched through the door of the orangery into the bright sunlight. She would find something new to occupy her time and her thoughts, propriety be damned! She marched across the meticulously manicured lawn, her pale blue and white skirt rustling against the yellowed grass. Perhaps she would go and find Adrian and demand he allow her to help him!
On most days she felt completely inadequate and cowed by her title and by being the wife of a man like him. But this was one of the days she despised him and cursed him for marrying her. This was one of those days she felt her heartache keenly and blamed him for everything wrong with her life, including the blasted apples!
She noticed Max rushing toward her across the lawn and paused to allow him to catch up. “Good afternoon, milady! Have you finished your painting so soon?” he asked breathlessly.
She had finished, all right. Forever. “Apples, Max. I have painted apples.”
“Ooh, a lovely subject.”
“A boring subject, sir. It seems I have quite exhausted my imagination.”
Max shook his head fiercely, as he was wont to do. “Your paintings are quite lovely, and I am quite certain your apples are painted to perfection.”
Lilliana snorted impatiently. “It is not terribly difficult to paint apples to perfection, is it, Max? One simply paints a circle, then colors it red.”
“If it were so easy, we should all paint apples,” Max informed her with a sniff, and paused to brush an imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “You are fortunate to have such unique talent—why, if it were not for your lovely paintings, Longbridge would be quite plain.”
Lilliana laughed at that. There was nothing about Longbridge that could be even remotely described as plain. “Nonetheless, I’ve decided to retire for a time.”
“I suppose it’s just as well, milady. You have callers.”
An immediate sense of foreboding descended on Lilliana. “Callers?”
“Yes, milady,” Max responded, looking terribly pleased. “Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark from London!”
Callers from London! This was a catastrophe! “Does … does my husband—”
“Oh yes, madam. He is with them now and bade me fetch you.”
She forced herself to smile at Max, who was obviously quite pleased she had actual guests. “Very well then,” she said with an airy flick of her wrist, and proceeded to walk toward the house, Max anxiously on her heels. Callers! Oh Lord! These women, whoever they were, would see that the Earl of Albright did not care for his new wife.
As they walked into the house through the terrace sitting room, Lilliana paused to look at her hair in the mirror. Max, beaming his approval, assured her she looked quite fetching, and nervously hopped from one foot to another until she was satisfied there was nothing she could do. When they reached the gold salon, Max proudly swept the doors open.
Two elderly women jumped to their feet as Lilliana entered, both talking excitedly as Adrian strode forward. He smiled absently at her and beckoned her into the room. “Lady Paddington, Mrs. Clark, may I present Lady Lilliana Albright,” he said smoothly. Lilliana curtsied, intended to extend a proper greeting, but the women immediately began chattering before she could open her mouth.
“Lady Albright! My, what a wonderful ring the name has to it, don’t you think, Mrs. Clark?”
“It is positively divine, particularly since we were never expecting there to be a Lady Albright!”
“Oh my, never!” Lady Paddington echoed.
Uncertain how to respond, Lilliana stammered, “I, uh, thank you.”
“Lady Paddington is the great-aunt of my close friend, Lord Arthur Christian,” Adrian informed her. “And Mrs. Clark is her companion. They have stopped on their way to Cambridge, to visit with Mrs. Clark’s sister.”
“Cambridge is such a quaint little town,” Lady Paddington said with a sigh. “It reminds one of—”
“London!” Mrs. Clark chirped.
“London!” Lady Paddington echoed, and folded her chubby hands over her middle. “Have you been to Cambridge, Lady Albright?”
Good Lord, she had hardly been to Newhall! “I’m afraid I’ve not had the pleasure,” she said, and the recently familiar sensation of awkwardness began to creep into her bones. She gestured helplessly toward some chairs. “Please, do sit.”
The ladies did so eagerly, and launched into a disjointed discussion of their travel plans. Not a single detail was left out as far as Lilliana could tell, including the ladies’ shared relief that Mrs. Clark’s sister lived in Cambridge and not in London. Why they were undertaking a journey to see her would, apparently, remain a mystery.
They talked incessantly; when one finished, the other began. And they did most of their talking at Adrian. Lilliana tried to converse, but their chatter was daunting and she had absolutely nothing to add. If she did manage to say something, it seemed the women barely heard her. Oh, they smiled and nodded their heads at her pleasantly enough, but their attentions were most decidedly on Adrian.
And he, of course, gave no sign that he heard anything she said, but conversed with the ladies easily enough, just as Lilliana had seen him converse with her father.
When the ladies had completed their dissertation on Cambridge, they began to prattle about events in London, talking of people and places Lilliana did not know. Not once did they attempt to explain to her who the Devil of Darfield really was, or why Bavaria was mentioned so often in the same breath as the Duchess of Sutherland. Nor did they attempt to explain the significance of Harrison Green, who apparently hosted several bawdy gatherings in his home, which all of them had, at one time or another, attended. They had had a grand time of it, too, judging by the uproarious laughter as several incidents were recalled.
Abandoning her feeble attempts to join in the conversation in which she was so obviously an outsider, Lilliana sank against the plush armchair, convinced she was indistinguishable from the floral print. When Lady Paddington stood and started wandering about the room, she thought to stroll with her, but Adrian was quickly to his feet, walking beside her and nodding thoughtfully at one of Lilliana’s paintings the woman admired.
And then her misery gave way to a rising, anger. When Lady Paddington asked after the artist, Adrian merely shook his head. “Probably a local,” he said dismissively, and pointed her toward an expensive oriental vase that had recently arrived. That bloody husband of hers did not know it was her painting! After weeks of feeling like a country bumpkin, an indignant anger ignited and flamed through Lilliana at a frightening pace. He did not really speak to her, he did not acknowledge her in any way, and he did not know she painted! Damn him! He said he wanted a companion! He said they suited! He was a liar if nothing else, a bloody liar!
When Max announced tea, the ladies eagerly accepted Adrian’s invitation, swearing in the same breath that they simply had to be on their way. Adrian extended an arm to each of them, smiling politely at
their simultaneous chatter. Lilliana remained seated, glaring at the lot of them as they sauntered toward the salon door. When they reached it, Lady Paddington paused and glanced so quickly over her shoulder that her sausage curls danced wildly. “Lady Albright, aren’t you joining us?” she asked sweetly.
Adrian jerked around. “Lilliana! I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I forgot you,” he said with a disarming little chuckle, and smiled charmingly at the ladies.
He had forgotten her—but wasn’t that fine! And why should she be surprised? He hardly knew she existed, so she should hardly take offense that he had forgotten her! But offense she did take, and hard. Slowly she pushed herself from her chair and walked to where they were standing, glaring at Adrian the whole way. He quirked a lazy brow, then smiled down at his companions. “You are in for a treat, ladies. We have had the good fortune of engaging a particularly good cook. I think you will find his pastries quite delightful.”
“Ooh, I simply adore pastries!” Mrs. Clark chirped, and out the three of them walked, strolling abreast down the corridor, leaving Lilliana to walk behind.
The chatter continued, unabated, during tea. After insisting she would introduce Lilliana around when Adrian brought her to London for the Season—something Lady Paddington seemed terribly certain would actually happen—she began telling some outrageous tale about a game of loo in which she had lost against one Lady Thistlecourt. “I vow, I so desperately wished I was a man so I could avenge my honor properly,” she huffed, and stuffed a whole strawberry into her mouth. “Do you play, dear?” she asked Lilliana, carefully spitting the strawberry crown into her napkin.
“No, I’m afraid I don’t know the rules,” she answered truthfully, and wanted to smash Lady Paddington’s scone when she exchanged a brief but undeniable look of pity with Mrs. Clark.
“I once came dangerously close to having to defend my honor with Lady Thistlecourt,” Adrian said, chuckling softly. “She can hardly abide my presence since the Wilmingtons’ closing ball last Season.”
“Ooh, you are a dangerous gentleman, my lord!” Lady Paddington cried, and playfully slapped Adrian on the arm as Mrs. Clark howled with laughter.
Defeated, Lilliana sagged into her chair and began separating her raisins from her scone, piling them mindlessly on one side of her plate. Somewhere in the middle of a detailed description of all Lady Thistlecourt’s faults, she caught Adrian looking at her plate. She responded with a heated glare, but he did not so much as blink, and instead responded politely to Mrs. Clark’s inquiry as to his last trip to London. And then Lady Paddington casually mentioned seeing the “unfortunate” Lord Rothembow. A sudden chill seemed to descend upon the room; Lilliana quickly looked up from her pile of raisins.
“Clara!” Mrs. Clark hissed.
“I am terribly sorry, my lord!” Lady Paddington gasped. “I don’t know what I was thinking! You must forgive me!”
“There is nothing to forgive, my lady,” Adrian said coolly. Lilliana looked from Adrian to the ladies and back again. His expression remained inscrutable. “Who is Lord Rothembow?” she asked. Three pairs of eyes suddenly locked on her face.
“An acquaintance, dear. No one you know,” Mrs. Clark mumbled.
Yes, just like everyone else they had discussed! Lilliana put her fork down. “Only an acquaintance? Then why are you so terribly sorry, Lady Paddington?” she asked sweetly, and could almost feel Adrian’s displeasure emanate from across the little table.
“He is my father’s cousin, Lilliana. His son is recently deceased,” he said tightly. Lady Paddington suddenly took a great interest in her scone; Mrs. Clark pretended to closely examine the flowers on the table.
“I am very sorry,” Lilliana said, but she wasn’t sorry, not in the least. How could she possibly know he had a relative who had recently died? It wasn’t as if he had deigned to tell her a bloody thing about himself! If he was uncomfortable, it was his own fault, and she blithely continued rearranging the raisins on her plate.
A man would have to be blind and deaf not to see that his wife was miffed. Lilliana had acted like a petulant child during their tea with the ladies, digging her raisins out of her scone and making a little mountain of them. Fortunately, the ladies had been so engrossed with the cataloguing of Lady Thistlecourt’s many faults they had not seemed to notice. And when the ladies were finally on their way, Lilliana had gone to her rooms, where she had remained for the rest of the day, refusing even to join him for supper. As she was typically such an unobtrusive sort of girl, taking her meals with him in companionable silence, he could not help wondering what had come over her. He thought to send for her, but then thought better of it. At the mention of Lord Rothembow, he had acquired another one of the miserable, blinding headaches that often came with a reminder of Phillip or Benedict.
Seated in front of the fire in his master suite of rooms, Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. He had not had a headache in several days now—in the process of pouring his heart and energy into the resurrection of Longbridge, he had managed to push his conscience into some remote and dusty corner of his soul.
For weeks now, he had worked hard in the fields, shored up the tenant homes, pored over the accounts, and planned several extensive enhancements to the mansion. The sweat, the exertion, the mind-numbing review of years of mangled accounting had gradually freed him from the intense guilt that had been eating away at him, little by little. He was by no means completely free of it; God help him, he would never be completely free of it. But his bouts of melancholy and blinding headaches were becoming less frequent, and his ability to block the horrible events beginning in Dunwoody and ending in Kealing was growing stronger.
But then Lady Paddington and Mrs. Clark, two old bats who frequented the best salons of London in search of gossip and a card game, had unexpectedly appeared. After an absence from the same salons of more than six weeks, Adrian had been rather delighted to see them and anxious for news of London. He had been amused by their little tales, eager to hear of friends and acquaintances. The talk of London had left him thinking how much he missed it, and he had been mulling over the idea of leaving Longbridge in the care of his steward, Mr. Lewis, when they had mentioned Lord Rothembow. The reminder of Phillip’s death and his father’s grief—Adrian hadn’t looked at that letter in days now—had sent him spiraling backward into the pit of guilt and desolation from which he had been working so hard to claw his way out.
Speaking of guilt, hadn’t the Princess of the Grange been in fine form this afternoon! How he regretted his hasty decision to marry her! As a result of his rash anger, he had gotten himself a little country wife who no more suited him than he suited her. She would have been much happier in her home parish with Benedict—now there was a pair that suited. Unfortunately, he had ruined any hope of that, and despite having realized the gravity of his mistake several times over, it was too damn late. He had no choice but to keep her, and for the most part he had managed to put her out of his mind along with everything else.
Until today.
Until he had seen those gray-green eyes, and the pangs of his old, familiar friend Guilt had crept into his bones.
He sighed and pushed himself from the leather wing chair and strode to the windows of his master suite. Shoving the heavy velvet drapes aside, he stared blindly into the night, wondering how to make life bearable for them both. He should give her an expensive bauble to cheer her; he had never known a woman whose disposition did not improve with an expensive piece of jewelry. He would dispatch a letter to his solicitor first thing in the morning, recognizing that it was a pathetic gesture for having ruined her life but hoping it might at least make her smile. He remembered that smile—broad and bright and ending in a lone dimple in one cheek. He had not seen her smile for days now.
Except when she lay beneath him.
That sudden thought brought a rush of warmth to his loins. The one thing about her that had surprised him enormously was how unconventional she w
as between the sheets. Since the first night he had bedded her, she had astounded him with her passion. She was a little hellion, he thought with a wry smile, unafraid to try anything and searing him with her demanding, untutored responses. Hell, he could hardly call her untutored—she was a quick learner and seemed almost desperate to please him. The memory of her mounting him with such exhilaration just last night was making him quite hard. He suddenly pushed away from the window and turned toward the door connecting their rooms.
He entered quietly, but in the faint glow of the dying embers in her hearth he saw her quickly flip to her side, her back to him. Still miffed, he thought as he removed his dressing gown. The Princess did not so much as move when he lifted the bed linens and slid in next to her.
Neither of them spoke. His fingers grazed her shoulder then slid slowly down her arm, to her waist, and over the silk night rail covering her belly. “I had a rather lonely supper,” he murmured against her shoulder. “Max said you were not feeling well.”
“I was feeling perfectly fine,” she muttered irritably.
Interesting. Definitely not her typically demure reply. He continued his gentle caress, his fingers trailing languidly across the curve of her waist into her hip, then her leg. “Then perhaps you are not quite as enamored of our cook as I am?” he asked pleasantly, inhaling the subtle scent of rosewater in her luxurious hair. She shrugged. His fingers trailed up her leg, over her hip, and up her arm until they reached her shoulder, where he brushed the hair from her neck. “Perhaps, then, it was the prospect of my company,” he said, and feathered her neck with light kisses. She squirmed, moving away from him. With a quiet smile Adrian slid his hand down her arm until he reached her hand. Grasping it tightly, he pushed it against her belly, forcing her against his body and anchoring her to his chest. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. The salty taste of her tears surprised him as she helplessly jerked her hand from his and pressed her fingers to her eyelids.
Julia London 4 Book Bundle Page 11