That was preposterous, and Adrian snorted. “I am not smitten with her,” he grumbled. And he wasn’t smitten with her. How could he be smitten with an obnoxious little—
“My God, I think you must be right! He is smitten with her!” Julian gleefully exclaimed.
“I am not smitten with her!” Adrian insisted more forcefully. “Believe me, she is the most exasperating, impudent, insane county bumpkin you could ever hope to meet!”
Much to his exasperation, Arthur and Julian exchanged a glance and laughed at that. Ignoring Adrian’s dark frown, Arthur asked, “If she is so … exasperating, is that it? Why in God’s name did you marry her?”
Good Lord. Adrian sighed and lifted his brandy, then set it aside again without drinking. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try us,” Julian said, chuckling.
“For revenge.” There, he had said it, and glanced impassionately at the twin looks of shock.
“Wh-what?” Arthur stammered.
“Revenge, plain and simple,” Adrian repeated. And with the inevitable momentum gained from having opened his mouth in the first place, he calmly began speaking of the events that had occurred after Dunwoody. He told them of the disownment, which they apparently already knew, judging by the sheepish looks on their faces. He told them of his discovery that Benedict planned to offer for the parish princess, of his rash decision to marry her, of being catapulted into a strange world of horse thieves and drapes made of neckcloths, and perfectly good hats turned into baskets. He shook his head when he told them of Hugo and Maude, and how those beasts were slowly and systematically destroying his home.
And for reasons he would never fully understand, he spoke of the emotional distance between him and his wife, overlooking Julian’s dramatic groan when he covered his face with his hands at Adrian’s obvious weakness. Amazingly, as Arthur gaped at him in rapt attention, muttering, “I knew it,” the distress came tumbling out of him. He was able to put into words his inability to understand the Princess of the Grange, or women for that matter, and his fear that she loved Benedict. When he at last finished, he pushed away his empty glass feeling completely drained. Never in his life had he spoken so openly about himself, and he was already regretting it. He felt exposed and raw.
The men were silent for a long moment, until at last Julian spoke. “Take a mistress,” he said flatly. “Trust me, you will never be able to understand her, and if what you say is true, it won’t matter. You come from different worlds, really, and if it is Benedict she desires, then … Take a mistress,” he said gruffly.
“No,” Arthur hastily interjected. “No. It is possible there is something you don’t see. Perhaps she doesn’t love Benedict. You should go and tell her what you have told us.”
Julian laughed. “And when did you become such a fool? Confessing that he married her to avenge the loss of his inheritance might not endear him to her.”
“I daresay it will be more appealing to her than a mistress,” Arthur shot back. “He deserves to know how she feels. And she deserves to know how he feels.”
Did he feel? Adrian wondered, and pressed his lips together, slowly shaking his head as Julian groaned his disgust again, muttering that feelings and a halfpenny would get him a pint. Was he even capable of feeling? After years of suppressing his feelings, it was exceedingly difficult to recognize them when they surfaced.
“Go home to her, Adrian,” Arthur insisted.
“Get yourself a mistress and thank me another time,” Julian said, and shoved away from the table. “I’m to Madam Farantino’s. Who will join me?” When Adrian declined again, Julian blithely remarked to Arthur that was just as well since Adrian always helped himself to the prettiest, and slung his arm around Arthur’s shoulder. With bright farewells until the morrow, the two Rogues sauntered from the Tarn O’Shanter with all the confidence of a pair of roosters.
Adrian spent the next day behind closed doors with his solicitors. When he emerged in the early evening, he headed straight for the blue drawing room and the cup of coffee he had craved all afternoon. No thanks to Arthur, he had slept restlessly. The suggestion that he tell Lilliana how he felt had tumbled roughly about his brain like a rock all night, jabbing sharply at his dull headache. If it hadn’t been for that wretched scene in her bedroom, had she not presented herself like a wench, he would not have paid Arthur any heed. But that strange event had him thinking perhaps Arthur was right—there was more than he knew, and he should return to Longbridge at once to speak with her. To the extent that he was capable, he should at least be honest with her.
And himself.
He grudgingly recognized that perhaps he had not been completely attentive to her, really, as he had thrown himself into the resurrection of Longbridge. A gift. Yes, he would bring her a proper gift, a peace offering. He would have his secretary check on the emerald bracelet and necklace he had commissioned several weeks ago. That would be a proper peace offering.
Unfortunately, he could not yet depart, as his solicitors had advised him there were some papers concerning his Boston shipyard that needed to be drawn up immediately. It would take a few days to have everything in order, but they needed his signature so they might be dispatched at once. Ah well. Another day or so would not make any difference, and in truth he could stand a trip to the exclusive shops on Jermyn Street to replace his two best hats and the silk neckcloths she had destroyed. No, he thought with a wry smile, another day or so would not make much difference.
Except that he needed to see her.
Thankfully, Benedict did not want to remain in London any longer. He made some vague excuse of having business elsewhere, but Adrian suspected he was anxious to return to Kealing Park before he angered Archie with his prolonged absence. He asked Benedict to explain to Lilliana why he had been detained, which his brother eagerly assured him he would. With a cheerful wave, Benedict departed for Longbridge to retrieve his coach.
Thirteen
IN THE ORANGERY at Longbridge, Lilliana stared at the nearly finished portrait of Adrian and commended herself—she’d actually done a rather good job with it. His handsome face stared back at her, impassive, unfeeling.…
He had left her at Longbridge with nothing more than a terse note informing her he had gone to London for a few days. To London. She had been there once as a child, remembered it as noisy and dirty and teeming with all sorts of people. It was a vivid memory, and one so grand she would give anything to see it again. But after her little display she been abruptly left behind. Perhaps it was an indication of how things were to be with them. He would see the world; she would remain at Longbridge. Painting.
His abrupt departure had hurt her terribly and had angered her to an extent she had never before experienced. In some respects she was glad he had not returned before now, because Lord only knew what she might have said or done. But that was before the unmistakable feelings of contrition and shame began to creep into her conscience. Her actions had been abominable—an image of her mother’s likely horror if she knew how Lilliana had acted kept playing in her mind’s eye—screams, a plea to God to have mercy on her daughter, then certain heart failure. Like a silly, wanton child, so in need of attention, she had pushed the limits of decency.
What demon had possessed her? What monstrous illness had robbed her of all reason? She was deeply ashamed that she would so readily and completely believe Benedict’s innuendoes. Again, like a child.
She paused in her painting and leaned back, cocking her head to one side as she assessed her work with a critical eye. It was a very good likeness of Adrian, but it did not quite capture the essence of him, the sheer magnetism that practically oozed from him. Please come back, her heart whispered. She missed him. She needed to apologize, to explain how foolish she had been, to finally speak of why she had done it. Please come back.
But a little voice in her head sounding suspiciously like Alice Dashell warned her that he might never come back to her. Not in spirit, anyway. “You want
ed a reaction?” she muttered angrily. “Well, you got one!” She had succeeded, apparently, all too well.
The sound of her name from somewhere outside startled her, and she yanked her gaze to the window. Benedict! Her heart skipped several beats. They were home! Lilliana anxiously leapt to her feet and yanked at the ties of her apron. Discarding it, she quickly ran a hand through her hair, pinched her cheeks to hide the paleness, and hurried to the door. Flinging it open, she rushed outside, oblivious to the cold of the final gasp of winter. Beaming, she held out her hands to Benedict as he came striding across the lawn.
“Lilliana, where is your cloak? You’ll catch your death!” he called, and began stripping his own cloak from his shoulders.
“I’m quite all right,” she assured him, but he already had the cloak around her shoulders. He kissed her forehead in greeting and Lilliana immediately stepped back, out of his reach, to peer around him, blushing. “Did you just arrive?” Where was Adrian?
“This very moment. Come—I won’t have you standing outside,” he said, and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, forcing her into his side as he hurried her toward the house. Entering the terrace sitting room, Lilliana smiled brightly and glanced anxiously about, expecting to see her husband. Where was he?
“I could use a bit of brandy to warm my bones. It’s frightfully cold out,” Benedict remarked.
Lilliana pulled his cloak from her shoulders. “Max keeps the gold salon rather well stocked,” she replied, inclining her head toward the door. Benedict took the cloak and followed her into the corridor. Adrian would appear at any moment, she thought, and give her that charming smile of his. He would act as if nothing had happened, just as he always did.
But Adrian did not appear as they walked the length of the corridor.
Benedict commented on one of her newly hung paintings—marvelous, he said, and she nodded, her eyes trained ahead, expecting him to step through a door at any moment. When they reached the gold salon, they found it empty, and Lilliana’s heart sank.
Max entered behind them and quickly divested Benedict of the cloak, then walked to the sideboard, withdrawing two snifters. “May I pour you a brandy, my lady?” he asked. Lilliana shook her head, and Max put one snifter away. Now there was only one. Adrian had not come home, she realized, and was suddenly conscious of a dull ache in her chest
Benedict accepted the snifter from Max and strolled casually to the hearth to warm his back. “I thought spring had come, but it is awfully cold out. I suppose winter is not quite done with us,” he remarked sociably, and sipped his brandy. “Thank you, Max. That will be all.”
Lilliana sank into a chintz-covered armchair, oblivious to the tight-lipped look Max gave her before he quit the room. “Did … did Adrian come with you?” she asked, wincing that her voice sounded so small.
Benedict hesitated. “I’m afraid not. He decided to stay a bit longer.”
“Really?” she asked, trying very hard to sound casual. “How much longer?”
“I couldn’t say, really.” He suddenly turned his back to her, warming his front. “I cannot seem to shake the chill.”
“Umm … did he say why he should remain there?” she asked, her voice even smaller.
Benedict responded with a shrug of his slender shoulders. “I rather imagine he will tell you it was business.”
He would tell her it was business? Lilliana’s hand fisted in her lap, and she dropped her gaze, commanding herself not to be so distrustful. When she lifted her head again, Benedict had turned and was watching her closely. Her cheeks flushed. “He must be quite busy with his work. It’s been so long since he has been to London.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t fret—he didn’t seem so very busy,” Benedict offered, and smiled strangely; it seemed almost a sneer.
But Lilliana nodded dumbly, distraught that her husband had not returned. Might never return! Perhaps he found himself delightfully free of her and quite safe from another shameful episode in her suite. Her face flooded with the heat of shame as she recalled that night for the thousandth time, offering herself like a whore, shocked when he had angrily thrust into her, and then … then finding such rapture in it. She swallowed convulsively at the memory; how despicable … it would be a miracle if he ever found his way home again after what she had done.
“Dear God, I’ve upset you,” Benedict said, and came away from the hearth.
“Of course you haven’t!” she shakily attempted to assure him. “I’ve been a bit under the weather recently, and I rather think—”
“Lilliana, look at me.” Benedict sank down on the ottoman in front of her and leaned forward so that she could see the concern etched around his eyes. “Lord help me, but I cannot bear to see you so distressed—”
“I am not distressed—”
“I cannot deceive you. I would do anything to avoid hurting you, but I cannot lie!”
The nausea of dread began to rise in her throat. “Lie?” she echoed, and with a limp flick of her wrist, attempted to laugh.
But Benedict caught her hand and held it tightly. “I tried to tell you what sort of man he was, but you would not hear me.… Jesus, this is so difficult,” he said, grimacing.
“Please, Benedict, no more,” Lilliana insisted weakly, but oh, God, she knew. She knew and the knowledge was knifing her through the heart. She yanked her hand free of his; he fumbled for it but let it slide through his fingers.
“My dearest Lillie, how very innocent you are,” he said, sighing sadly. The sound of that name on Benedict’s lips, the name he called her when he held her in his arms, made her nausea grow. “I know how painful this must be for you—poor Lillie, so very sweet and simple. Unfortunately, it is the way of some men and there is little one can do to change them. It is difficult to accept, I know, but you are strong—you will come to accept it, and I will help you with all that I have,” he murmured.
She had no idea what to say to that! Stunned, she could only stare at him, wondering if she should thank him for being forthright or curse him for saying something so wretched.
He suddenly rose. “Let me fetch you a brandy. You’ll feel better with a brandy.” He returned a few moments later with a snifter, holding it between his hands to warm it before giving it to her. “I’ll postpone my return to Kealing Park a day or two; I cannot leave you in such distress.”
He handed her the brandy with such a look of pity that she wanted to pour it over his head. Simple and fragile—but look at her, for God’s sake! A country bumpkin who threw iniquitous little tantrums in her bedroom! “There is really no need, Benedict,” she said, but her hand, trembling as she took the brandy he offered, suggested otherwise. Damn it! How could she look at Adrian again, knowing he was keeping company with another woman in London? A woman who undoubtedly accepted his gentle caress without tears or dramatic displays!
“There is every need,” he said in a distinctly patronizing tone. “Drink your brandy, love, and then perhaps you should lie down for a bit.”
She didn’t need to lie down. She needed to run out into the bitter cold so that her lungs would freeze and she would never have to take another tortured breath again.
Fortunately, Thunder liked the cold, and kept up a rapid pace for most of the trip to Longbridge. Adrian had made good time and was glad for it. The need to see Lilliana was eating at him like a virus, so much so that he had asked Arthur to bring the emerald jewelry he had commissioned because he simply could not wait another day. Naturally, he had been forced to endure a fair amount of ribald laughter for it, but Arthur had agreed.
Thunder trotted down the oak-lined drive, and Adrian anxiously glanced at his pocket watch again. Max had once mentioned she spent her afternoons painting; she would be in the orangery now. In the paddock he quickly tossed the reins to a groom and instructed him to have his bags delivered to Max, then headed for the orangery. As he round the corner of the stable, he could see the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the orangery windows, and amazingly, his heart beat a
little faster.
He picked up the pace, jogging to the corner of the orangery, then slowing to a walk as he headed for the door. As he approached one pane-glass window, he caught a glimpse of her inside, her brush raised to a canvas, her blond curls shimmering in the candlelight. He smiled warmly—but the smile began to fade as he neared. A man’s arm came up near her head, pointing at something on the canvas. Max, perhaps? Or Benedict?
His eyes narrowed as he walked past the window. It was Benedict, all right, hanging over her shoulder. Reaching the door, Adrian rapped lightly and swung it open. Lilliana dropped her brush and came clumsily to her feet, hastily wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “Adrian. You’ve come home.”
Cool and to the point. Not exactly the reception he had hoped for, but not altogether unexpected. “A little later than I would have liked,” he said blandly. He glanced around as Lilliana shrugged awkwardly from a smock that looked suspiciously like one of his shirts. There were paintings everywhere—covering the walls, propped like cards in one corner, and on three separate easels in various spots around the large, rectangular room. “You’ve been busy, I see,” he said, and glanced to his right “Ben, I am surprised to see you,” he said, and walked forward, extending his hand. “Thought you had business elsewhere.”
His brother’s eyes darted nervously to Lilliana before he grasped Adrian’s hand. “The weather,” he mumbled. “Rather nasty the last few days.”
It was cold, but hardly treacherous. Adrian shifted his gaze to Lilliana. “I hope you have been well,” he said, and strolled toward her. Her eyes widened as he approached, the gray-green orbs exactly as he had imagined them these last few days, large and framed with thick golden lashes.
“Are you?”
“Am I?”
“Well.”
“Oh!” Her hand came up, and she nervously fingered the small gold cross at her neck. “Yes, quite well, thank you. And you?”
“Quite well,” he mumbled, and leaned down to kiss her. She startled him by turning her head slightly, so that he just caught the corner of her mouth. He straightened slowly, silently cursing Benedict’s presence. If only he could speak to her, in here, among her paintings. While she looked so terribly mussed and appealing. “I don’t suppose I could entice you to join me in the gold salon? I should like to hear about Longbridge while I was away. I trust no boxing matches have occurred?” he asked, and smiled.
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