“Umm, no.” She glanced at Benedict. A twinge of jealousy shot down Adrian’s spine, and he followed her gaze over his shoulder. Benedict was standing with his feet braced apart, his hands clenched at his side. “Ah, actually, my lord,” she said, “it is almost time for tea. If you please, I should dress first.” She quickly pulled a tarp over the painting she had been working on and stepped around him, walking toward the door. Benedict was there in a trice, holding out her cloak. “Oh. Thank you,” she mumbled, and fastened it around her neck. She turned halfway toward Adrian, her gaze riveting on his neckcloth. “Excuse me,” she muttered. And with that she walked out of the orangery. There was no joy at his return, no need to see him as he needed to see her. Terribly conscious of Benedict, Adrian kept his expression neutral. He strolled toward the door, his eyes on his younger brother, who seemed oddly nervous. The weakling was hiding something. “Did I interrupt?” he asked mildly.
“Interrupt …? God, no, Adrian. She’s been a bit unsettled I think, what with you being gone.”
“Has she? I would not have guessed,” Adrian said dryly, and walked out the door, not caring if Benedict followed or not.
But he did, and Adrian was forced to make conversation with him while they waited a full hour for Lilliana to appear. Benedict chatted endlessly about nothing, and if pressed, Adrian could not have repeated a single thing he had said. His heart was full of foolish jealousy at her cool reception, impatience at her lack of gaiety. Had he been a fool to think he harbored some fondness for her? Had he been so disturbed by her performance that night in her bed that he had come up with some ridiculous notion of affection? Yes, and while he was convincing himself that he rather did care for her, she had been smiling at Benedict.
But when she walked into the salon wearing a pale gold gown of brocade and chiffon, the uncertainty rocketed to terrifying proportions. She moved as if she were gliding on air, the chiffon streaming out behind her like some sort of cloud. Her hair was swept back and bound up with little gold beads stuck carelessly about her coif. She was terribly alluring—had she always been so? Was it really possible he had been so blind to her charm?
She sat gingerly on the edge of a settee and accepted the cup of tea a footman handed her, but made no move to drink it. Her face was pale, and the faintest of shadows dusted the skin beneath her eyes. Benedict immediately engaged her in some useless conversation, and Lilliana smiled at him, and Adrian felt the gulf between them widen impossibly. This was hardly what he had hoped for or imagined. He had wanted to sweep her into his arms, make passionate love to her, and erase the memory of that awful night.
But Benedict’s chatter continued well into supper. At the dining table, Adrian quietly endured the inane chatter and Lilliana’s bright responses. Too bright. So bright that it seemed that tiny chinks in her armor were glowing with them. This was not the same Lilliana he had left a few days ago.
And if he needed any further proof of it, she did not touch her pudding.
By the time the dishes had been cleared and the port drunk, Adrian was sick to death of Benedict. He had to speak with his wife, alone, unguarded. He stood abruptly, his eyes riveting on Lilliana. “I would speak with you alone, Lilliana,” he said curtly, and glancing to his left, said coolly, “Ben, you will excuse us, won’t you?”
“Oh! Naturally! I should really be off to bed as I intend to get an early start tomorrow.”
That Adrian would believe when he saw it. With a curt nod to his brother he walked to the door and opened it. “Lilliana?”
Her gaze fell to the table, and bracing her hands against it, she slowly pushed herself to her feet. Deliberately, she turned and walked toward him with her eyes on the carpet, as if she had been summoned to meet her maker. When she reached the door, Adrian grasped her elbow and propelled her swiftly into the east wing and to his private study.
Pushing the door open, he waited for her to precede him, then stepped across the threshold and leaned against the door with his hands shoved in his pockets. He watched her move to the far side of the room, nervously running her palms up and down over the chiffon overlay of her gown, until she at last clasped her hands at her waist and turned toward him.
“You seem out of sorts tonight, Lilliana.”
She refused to meet his gaze. “I … I rather suppose I am,” she murmured.
“Mind telling me why?”
She drew part of her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. “I must ask you something I truly wish I did not have to ask,” she muttered.
Adrian pushed away from the door and strolled into the center of the room. “How many times must I say it? Whatever pleases you, you may have.”
Slowly she lifted her chin, and the green eyes pierced him. “That’s splendid, because it would please me to live separately from you.”
The softly spoken words carried as much power as a kick to his gut; Adrian unconsciously stepped backward. Now what insanity had invaded her head? “Are you ill? Mad, perhaps?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
“I am not mad,” she said indignantly. “But the circumstances being what they are, I believe it is the best course for us. For me, anyway.”
Benedict. He knew that weakling had something to do with this as sure as he stood there. “Under the circumstance? What circumstance?” he asked, barely able to contain the anger beginning to churn just beneath the surface.
“Your indifference, Adrian. Your … your faithlessness. I cannot bear it, and I won’t. I want to live in the west wing. Those rooms are never used, and it seems to me that we should be quite able to avoid one another.”
She said it so smoothly, so clearly, he wondered how many times she had practiced it. Had Benedict helped her? “No,” he said calmly. “Now perhaps you will explain this ridiculous notion you have that I am either indifferent or faithless.”
“Ridiculous?” Her lovely eyes narrowed. “You have been indifferent to me since the day we married, and your faithlessness has made itself known in more ways than one.”
When had dementia invaded this woman? “Do you have any concept of the meaning of the words you use, Lilliana? Do you even know what you are accusing me of?” he asked, folding his arms defensively across his chest. He saw the spark in her eye, the certain flare of anger that doused the sadness.
“And now you think me stupid—but I should hardly be surprised. Of course I know what I am saying! Do you think me so simple that I cannot plainly see what is before me?”
“What is before you? God, the idiocy that muddles your mind! Have you forgotten that I must constantly remind you that you may have whatever you would like? That I must constantly remind you that you are a bloody countess with all the privilege that entails? Where is the indifference, Lilliana? Where is the faithlessness?” he asked sharply.
Lilliana’s knuckles were white now, and he realized she was gripping them tightly to her abdomen to keep them from shaking. But she held her ground and looked him square in the eye, her eyes flashing murderously. “You will give me every material thing at your disposal, but you will give me nothing of yourself! That is the indifference!” she snapped. “And as for the faithlessness, it is fairly obvious, isn’t it? You keep your distance from me at Longbridge then escape to London and you do not return for days!”
Adrian opened his mouth to speak but, her eyes blazing, Lilliana rushed on. “Don’t you dare tell me it was business,” she said hoarsely, “because it is always business with you, Adrian! Or at least that is what you would have me believe! And do not attempt to give me some weak excuse, because I know!”
The urge to throttle the insane little minx rose swiftly. Adrian shoved his hands in his pocket and pivoted on his heel, stalking to the cold hearth. “I don’t know whether to shake some sense into you or let you stew in your own folly, Lilliana. I have given you everything that is mine, yet it seems not enough! I go to London to see to my affairs so that I may continue to give you everything you want, yet it is not enough for you! What do y
ou want of me? Jesus, just once, will you tell me what you want?” he roared. He realized he was shouting at her, and it seemed to take her aback almost as much as it did him.
“I don’t want your things, Adrian,” she said slowly. “I want the companionship you spoke of when you offered for me! I want to soar like you soar, to experience the sights and sounds and pleasures of this world just like you! I don’t want to be kept hidden away here because you are ashamed of me!” She gasped softly at her own words, and instantly turned away from him.
Adrian immediately crossed the room and grasped her shoulders, pulling her back against his chest. “I am not ashamed of you,” he said softly.
“But neither can you confess a particular interest in me, can you?” Before he could answer, before he could say that he was interested in her, that he was bloody well intrigued by her, she wrenched free and whirled around to face him. “Your attentions to me are for one thing only, are they not? That is the companionship you spoke of! My God, I was naive!” she cried. “But I am no longer the country girl you married, Adrian—I understand clearly now, too clearly! You had best keep your other companions,” she cried, “because I cannot live this way! I will not live this way! You want me to tell you what I want? I want separate quarters! I want to be away from you!”
He felt the painful slash of her rejection across his chest. The wall was coming up, the wall he had battered down the last several days in his earnest desire to tell Lilliana that she mattered to him, that she made him smile, that he felt an affection for her he had rarely felt in his life. The wall was coming up, all right, brick by impenetrable brick.
He smirked. “Then by all means, be away from me, madam,” he said smoothly. “Live in your little fantasy for all I care—it makes not a whit of difference to me. But you will not flaunt your disgust in full view of the staff. You may not take separate quarters.”
“I already have,” she said quietly.
He caught his breath to keep from exploding, remained rigid as she walked past him and quit the room. And then he pressed his fingers to his eyes as another raging headache threatened to split his skull open.
Fourteen
POLLY DID NOT care for her mistress’s decision to move to the west wing, and frowned at the musty drapes and sagging bed. The room wasn’t fit for a groom, much less a countess. But Lady Albright was just like the girls—headstrong and foolish. When the door burst open, Polly bestowed her disapproving frown on her ladyship. “It’s dark as Hades in here,” she snapped.
“Hades is lit with eternal fire,” Lady Albright shot back, and moved quickly to the vanity, threw herself down onto the bench, and buried her face in her hands.
Polly snorted; bad humor was just what she deserved for being so petulant. A woman’s place was with her husband. “Shouldn’t be here, I’ll say. It’s not good for you.”
“Don’t, Polly! Please, I need to be alone.”
Polly clucked her tongue disdainfully. “Just like the Albright girls,” she muttered irritably as she marched from the room.
That was where Polly was wrong. There was nothing about her that remotely resembled an Albright in any shape or fashion, Lilliana thought angrily as she stood and struggled from her gown. And she did not want to be an Albright, either, not if it meant such cold, hardhearted indifference! Oh God, oh God, how had she ever gotten herself into such a mess?
She would never forget the way he looked when he walked into the orangery, his thick sandy hair tousled by the wind, the impossible span of his chest, and that lopsided grin that had made her knees shake and her hands tremble. And tonight, in his oh so precious study, the way he had leaned against the door, casually perusing her—
Bloody marvelous, her cheeks were flaming because of a bonafide, self-important ass! Who did he think he was, traipsing off to London and some woman, then waltzing back to Longbridge to protest that she seemed out of sorts? He must think her the consummate fool, an unsophisticated rustic with a brain the size of a pea! For all his faults, Benedict never treated her so poorly—a bit domineering, perhaps, but he was first and foremost a gentleman! She should have married Benedict. She should never have let a childish fantasy guide such an important decision.
Lilliana angrily fumbled with the fastenings of her gown, and in a moment of frustration yanked so hard that she succeeded in popping a button and launching it clear across the room. She should have married Benedict, settled at Kealing Park, and lived her life in familiar surroundings. What a fool to think she might have soared with Adrian! What a pathetic bumpkin to believe a man like him would want her companionship! Ah, but he was a scoundrel, a liar for letting her think it!
She jerked the gown from her body and threw herself on the bed, where she remained tossing and turning all night, hoping he would come to her and hoping just as fiercely that he would not.
The next morning, her anxiety was not eased in the least. A storm had passed in the night, coating the branches outside her window with ice and the ground with snow. It made her feel impossibly hopeless and impossibly trapped. This was hell. Somehow she had stumbled into an abyss from which there was no escape.
Adrian was thinking much the same thing as he sat in the breakfast room, staring across the table at Benedict. How long would he remain? One day, maybe two? He had already made some remark about being trapped here for God knew how long. Adrian could not bear another moment of Benedict’s cheerful chatter about Kealing Park and all that he would do to it one day. Too disturbed to feign polite interest, he closeted himself in his study right after breakfast.
Just before she came down.
And there he remained for as long as he could, until he could stand the solitude no longer. When he at last ventured into the corridor, he could hear the sound of muted laughter coming from the music room. Against his better judgment, he walked in that direction. As he neared the door he could hear the tinkling of a pianoforte. A burst of laughter startled him, and he paused at the door, listening to Lilliana’s voice rise above the other.
And then the silence.
The ignominious thought that they were kissing ignited a red-hot flame of fury in him. He flung open the door and strode inside, fully prepared to catch them in the act.
But they were not kissing. At least not at that moment.
Lilliana was scribbling something on a sheet of music while Benedict stood gazing out the window. “There,” she said, and held the sheet up.
Benedict turned to see what she had and saw Adrian standing in the open door. “Adrian! Do come in! I will wager you didn’t know your wife penned music.” Bloody hell, of course he didn’t know it! Startled, Lilliana jerked her head around to him, blatantly frowning at his intrusion. Hugo and Maude, lying at Benedict’s feet, lifted their heads and thumped their tales, but neither moved to greet him.
Adrian glared at the traitorous curs. “Another hidden talent,” he drawled, and forced himself to smile. Lilliana quickly turned away and set the sheet of music aside.
“Ah, her music is as lovely as her paintings. But I am sure you have noted that she is quite a talented artist.”
“You would know better than I,” Adrian said in a moment of irrational jealousy. What insanity! As if he wanted to sit at a pianoforte with the Princess! He hardly wanted to be in the same room with her, let alone listen to her conjure up some rudimentary country song. Nevertheless, the uncomfortable sensation of envy rifled through him. “I am sorry I disturbed you,” he said stiffly, and turned to go, but not before catching the scathing look Lilliana bestowed on him, “No bother,” Benedict called after him as he left the room.
No bother my ass, he thought angrily as he strode down the corridor to the sanctity of his study. How long would he be forced to watch the two of them cozying up to one another? She had the audacity to accuse him of faithlessness? What a fool he had been. It was all he could do to keep from laughing at himself like a madman for having imagined he was somehow fond of that wench.
Through supper, and agai
n the next morning, he was forced to endure the sound of that lilting laughter coming from somewhere in the house, feeling quite certain it was at his expense. At luncheon he had stalked to the dining room and had happened upon Max and Bertram standing in the alcove leading to the west wing, staring curiously at a painting. Judging by the way Max turned deathly pale, he had surprised them, and the two men immediately sidled past, each muttering something about duties and chores and a bucket that needed scrubbing. Confused by their reaction, Adrian glanced at the painting.
It was a portrait of him. A magnificent one, really, that portrayed him proudly astride a steed, his hair ruffled by a breeze, looking out over something in the distance. She really was quite talented, he realized, and inadvertently looked at the steed.
Which happened to be a mule.
And a fat one at that.
Adrian watched the snow from a window in his study until the last fragile flake fell midafternoon. Convinced it had stopped, he strode to the foyer in search of Max, where he found him polishing a brass wall ornament. “Max!” he barked, and startled the man so badly that he must have jumped two feet.
“Y-yes, my lord?” he stammered.
“Go to the stables and tell whoever is there that I want the road cleared.”
Max gulped. “The road …? But the snow, my lord—it must be a foot thick!”
Adrian folded his arms and leaned forward until he was only inches from Max’s thin face. “I don’t care if there are six feet of snow. I want the road cleared.”
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