Ravishing in Red

by Madeline Hunter

  Kennington and Symes-Wilvert cast down their eyes again. Their faces flushed. They knew it was not a friend who spoke to them now. Morgan was all marquess as he stood there through force of will and little else. All Lord Wittonbury.

  “I told this dear lady that I believed that her father’s name was disgraced by mistake. That was not my brother’s blame, or the newspapers, or anyone’s except ours. His death is on our hands alone. You will now tell her the truth, whatever it may be, so she finally knows it.”

  Sebastian looked at Audrianna. She tried to avoid his gaze, but finally met it.

  She had known. When she offered her gift of love, she had known it all. She had spoken with Morgan and learned the truth. And she had also learned that the truth might clear her father.

  Sebastian was glad that this was his brother’s conversation now. He could not have spoken himself without betraying his emotions. It moved him profoundly that she had tried to protect him from the hell of exposing his own brother, to the point of sacrificing her own justice.

  “There was a man at the Tower, who was paid. He dealt with the records and stores. It was not your father, but a clerk who was beneath him and who could remove reports of bad powder if any came in on our mill, and also change things in the records after your father made his approval,” Kennington said quietly.

  “Our sincere apologies, Madam,” Symes-Wilvert mumbled.

  “Apologies are due, that is certain, to her and many others. But they are not enough. You know they are not,” Wittonbury said. “You will give the name of the other man to my brother, along with all the names of all the men who conspired with you.” He looked at Sebastian. “Then he and I will do what must be done.”

  Kennington and Symes-Wilvert looked as if they had been bludgeoned. Not daring to speak, they bowed and took their leave. They hurried back up the garden path.

  Wittonbury raised his voice and told them to stop. He could not turn to see them, so he spoke into the air. “No matter what happens, you will always be my friends.”

  He did not see their astonishment. Thoroughly cowed, they turned and walked out of the garden.

  Morgan grimaced. His balance wavered. “Help me to sit, Sebastian. Quickly, before I fall on my face and take your dear wife down with me.”

  The garden was silent except for the sounds of spring and the gentle falls of her feet. Audrianna meandered along the stone paths while she absorbed the drama that had just unexpectedly unfolded. Sebastian had gone in with his brother. They probably would talk privately for a while.

  She also needed to have some private conversations. She would go visit Mama tomorrow. Mama deserved to know that her loyalty to Papa had not been in vain.

  Audrianna let the old memories come as she strolled. They did not provoke anger now, or fear. She did not want to weep. She pictured her father in better times, and it brought joy, not pain. A lovely peace had settled in her with the confession of Wittonbury’s friends. The marquess had been correct that these two men were not good liars. They told the truth when they exonerated her father, she was certain.

  Her father’s face came to her vividly, more clearly than it had in months. It seemed to her that his dark eyes warmed in recognition. Then he smiled and nodded, and his image began dimming in her imagination.

  Boots fell into step beside her. She had not noticed that Sebastian had returned to the garden. He took her hand, and they walked on, enjoying the new peace together.

  “Your gift that night was even more selfless than I knew,” he said. “Morgan had confided everything to you, hadn’t he?”

  She nodded. “He wanted you to know. He wanted me to tell you. I could not. I hoped you would find a way to spare him the disgrace. If you knew for certain, perhaps honor would not permit that.”

  “I was going to try. He did not allow it.” He smiled a little ruefully. “He asked about that German physician. As we brought him up, he spoke of going abroad, once this matter is settled and aired. Then he called for our mother.”

  Audrianna glanced to the window of Wittonbury’s library. Would Lady Wittonbury be overjoyed to see her husband’s heir reclaiming his life and authority? Or dismayed by the disgrace that would diminish her influence along with his?

  “I think he was very brave,” she said. “And very kind to his friends at the end, in what he said.”

  “They stood by him when he was forgotten. He will not abandon them.” He stopped and pulled her into his arms. “I am glad that your father will be vindicated. Glad for you and me, and for our love. And I am grateful that you believed in him when everyone else did not.”

  “Grateful?”

  “If not for your determination, you would have never gone to the Two Swords that night. I might never have met you, or stolen that first kiss.”

  “You would have stolen one from another woman instead, and been well contented,” she teased.

  “It would not have been the same.”

  “You are a charmer, my love. Far be it from me to discourage your flattery, however.”

  He smiled his enchanting smile. As she grew dazzled and dizzy, his expression turned more serious. “You distracted me badly that night. It was—unexpected. It occurred to me, as we awaited the justice of the peace, that if you were transported, that kiss might indeed have to sustain me forever, the way the poets say the important kisses can.”

  This was not flattery now. His tone said it was not. She did not laugh or treat it as playful banter either.

  “I quite lost myself in that kiss,” she admitted. “It was very hard to hate you after that.”

  “Much as you tried?”

  She laughed. “Yes.”

  “Well, at least you never found me boring.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Never that. And now I love you too much to contain it. Kiss me, so that I can release some of that love before I burst.”

  He kissed her, and it was a kiss for the poets to talk of, a kiss never to be forgotten for the rest of her life.

  Read on for a preview of the next novel in

  Madeline Hunter’s ravishing quartet . . .

  Provocative in Pearls

  Available from Jove Books March 2010

  Chapter One

  A good friend lets one spill bile, even if he finds it boring. So it was that Grayson, Earl of Hawkeswell, took advantage of Sebastian Summerhays’s friendship while they were both trapped in Summerhays’s carriage this bright August morning.

  “I curse the day my cousin introduced me to the bastard.” He heard his voice snarl with anger. He had sworn to himself, sworn, that he would not do this, but here he was fuming like a chimney at the idiocy of life and pouring woe into Summerhays’s ear.

  “Thompson was not at all willing to cooperate?” Summerhays asked.

  “Hell, no. But, her trustee has agreed to join me in pressing for a new inquest, and with the help of Providence and the courts, I will be free of this complicated disaster by year’s end.”

  “It makes no sense to interfere with the inquest. The man is not rational if he tries that.”

  “He wants the connection. Or rather his wife does. She is mining it for all it is worth while she can, hoping the new ties hold once the connection itself is severed. He is also comfortable with the way things stand. He has control of that company, which is what he wanted. If we end this impasse, he risks losing that.”

  “It is good for you to be going down to the country, then. You can use some peace.”

  Summerhays smiled over like the good, understanding friend that he was. There was something of the physician’s sympathy in his expression, as if he worried for the health of the man he placated.

  Hawkeswell saw his umbrage the way Summerhays must, and his anger turned to bitter amusement. “I am a comical figure, am I not? Such are the punishments for selling oneself in marriage for some silver, I suppose.”

  “Such matches are made all the time. You are the victim of an odd circumstance, that is all.”

/>   “Let us hope the circumstances change soon. I am in dun territory up to my eyebrows and have sold what I can. It will be porridge this winter, I think.”

  The talk turned to other things, but part of Hawkeswell’s mind remained fixed on the marital conundrum that had plagued him for two years. Verity had drowned in the Thames, but her body had never been found. How she got there on her wedding day, why she left his estate at all, remained a mystery. There were those who wanted to blame him.

  His old reputation for a bad temper fed that speculation, but any fool could see it was not in his interest for Verity to disappear that day. An unconsummated marriage was an ambiguous marriage, as her trustee had so clearly explained when he refused to hand over her income from her trust. The Church would have to decide if there had been a marriage at all if she was ever declared dead. In the meantime . . .

  In the meantime, her husband—or maybe not her husband—could wait. He could not remarry while she was still officially alive. The money that led him to the altar was out of reach, however. He was in limbo.

  That powerlessness goaded him. He resented being a pawn of fate. Worse, this could go on for years.

  “I appreciate your company, Summerhays. You are too good to tell me I am tedious. It was generous of you to suggest I accompany you out of town before taking to horse for Surrey.”

  “You are not tedious. You are on the horns of a dilemma and I regret that I have no solution. Since you will not allow me to lend—”

  “I do not want one more debt, least of all to a friend. I have no expectations of being able to repay what is gone already.”

  “Of course. However, if it does come down to porridge, perhaps you will accept my offer for the sake of your cousin and aunt.”

  “I cannot accept.” Except he could, of course. If it got that bad he probably would. It was one thing to suffer this himself, but even worse to watch it affect those for whom he was responsible. He carried considerable guilt already, not only for his aunt and cousin, but also for the good people who lived on his entailed lands and who deserved more care and generosity than he could afford.

  “Did you tell your wife that you were coming down a day early?” he asked. Summerhays had married in the spring, and his wife visited her friends in Middlesex with some frequency. Her stays this summer were often extended, to avoid the heat in town.

  “I cleared my affairs so late yesterday that there was no point. I will surprise her. Audrianna will not mind.”

  Hawkeswell admired the security with which his friend said that. Generally women did mind when husbands interfered with their plans. If Summerhays were another kind of man, and his wife another kind of woman, showing up unexpectedly, a day early, at a country house party could lead to some awkward explanations.

  The coach rolled down the main lane of the village of Cumberworth, with his black gelding trotting along on its tether. He would have to visit his aunt once he reached Surrey, he supposed, and tell her that he would soon have to let her town house go. It would not be a pleasant meeting.

  Even worse would be the consultations with his steward, who would again advise enclosures of the common ground on the estate. Hawkeswell had long resisted following the modern practices on that. He had sought to avoid the hardships that enclosures would bring to the families whose lives depended on that land.

  People who had not seen the roofs over their heads maintained properly by their landlord should not now be deprived yet again, and in worse ways. His finances had become dire, however, and unless they improved soon, everyone would suffer anyway.

  The coach took a turn outside the town. A half mile along it carefully made another turn onto a private lane. A sign marked the property: THE RAREST BLOOMS.

  The coachman stopped where the trees fell away in front of a pleasant stone house surrounded by a handsome perennial garden of free, rustic design. Summerhays opened the coach door. “You must come and meet the ladies. Audrianna will want to see you.”

  “I will take my horse and be off. It is you she will be happy to see.”

  “The horse needs to rest. I insist you come with me. Mrs. Joyes will give you some refreshment before you begin your ride, and you can see the back garden. It is among the finest in Middlesex.”

  Since the duties waiting in Surrey did not encourage haste, Hawkeswell fell into step beside his friend and they walked to the door. A thin woman opened it and curtsied when she saw Summerhays.

  “Lady Sebastian was not expecting you today, sir. She is not packed, and is in the garden.”

  “That is fine, Hill. I will not mind waiting. I can find my own way to the garden, if you have other duties.”

  Hill curtsied again, but walked with them through the house. They passed a sitting room and a cozy small library crowded with stuffed chairs. Hill left them when they entered another, more informal sitting room in the back.

  “Come with me,” Summerhays said. He guided the way down a corridor that gave in to a large greenhouse.

  “Mrs. Joyes and the ladies have a business here, called The Rarest Blooms. You have seen their artistry at my wedding, and at many parties last season. This is where they work their magic.”

  The greenhouse was impressive, and large. Citrus trees and ferns, plants and vines, filled it with greenery and scents. High windows had been opened and a cross breeze fluttered leaves and petals.

  They strolled to the back, where a grape vine laden with clusters of fruit hung over some iron chairs and a stone table.

  Hawkeswell looked out the wall of glass. Distorting waves in the rectangular panes made the scene beyond more a watercolor wash than a Renaissance oil, as colors paled and blended and blurred. Even so, one could identify four women out there, at what appeared to be an arbor near a brick wall on the far side of the property.

  Summerhays opened a door and the images clarified. It was a rose arbor covered with white blooms. Audrianna sat on a bench under the arbor, beside the pale, perfect Mrs. Joyes of the dark gray eyes. Hawkeswell had met Daphne Joyes at Summerhays’s wedding.

  Two other women sat on the grass, facing the bench. One was a blonde with elaborately dressed hair. The other wore a simple straw bonnet, and its deep brim obscured her profile.

  Mrs. Joyes noticed the gentlemen emerging from the greenhouse. She raised her arm in greeting.

  The two women on the ground swung their heads to see whom Mrs. Joyes hailed. Then that bonnet turned back and the woman wearing it gave her attention to Audrianna.

  An odd sensation vibrated in Hawkeswell, like a plucked string of a soundless instrument. That patch of grass was shaded, and that bonnet made deeper shadows. And yet . . .

  He peered hard at that bonnet, so still now. It did not turn again, even as Audrianna and Mrs. Joyes called for Summerhays to join them. The tilt of the head, however, made that string pluck again.

  He walked toward them with Summerhays, along sand paths that meandered amid thousands of flowers.

  “Who are the others?” he asked. “The ones sitting on the ground.”

  “The blonde is Miss Celia Pennifold. The other is Miss Elizabeth Smith. Lizzie, they call her.”

  “You have met them before?”

  “Oh, yes. I am well acquainted with all the rarest blooms.”

  Hawkeswell exhaled deeply. Of course Summerhays would have met them all. The alarm in his instincts was uncalled for.

  “Well, not Lizzie, now that you mention it. I had never realized it before, but while I have seen her in the garden and through the greenhouse glass or even passing by in that bonnet, I do not think that we have ever been introduced.”

  They approached the ladies. The bonnet’s crown remained resolutely turned to them. No one else seemed to notice that, or consider it rude in the chaotic exchange of greetings and introductions that followed.

  No one seemed to realize that Lizzie had never been introduced to Audrianna’s husband, either, just as Summerhays himself had not. But an earl had entered the garden for the first time,
and that head’s immobility could not last forever in the courtesies that followed. Eventually Audrianna began the official introduction to Lizzie.

  The bonnet rose as Lizzie stood. Blood pounded in Hawkswell’s head as that lithe body, hidden beneath its shaft of simple blue muslin, turned. Head bowed modestly and deep brim shadowing her face, Lizzie curtsied.

  The pounding eased. No, he had been wrong. And yet his memories of the particulars were so vague. So shockingly vague. But, no, his mind had played a trick with him, that was all.

  “I will go ask Hill to bring out refreshments,” Lizzie said quietly. Very quietly. Like a whisper.

  She curtsied again, and walked away. The circle of women and the buzz of talk did not much notice her leave.

  The tilt of that head again. The manner of walking. The pounding began again, savagely.

  “Stop.”

  Everyone froze at his command and stared at him. Except Lizzie. She kept walking and did not look back. Her gait altered, though. She looked ready to bolt.

  He strode after her and grabbed her arm.

  “Lord Hawkeswell—really,” Mrs. Joyes scolded, her expression one of stunned surprise. She looked with distressed curiosity at Summerhays.

  “Hawkeswell—” Summerhays began.

  He raised a hand to silence Summerhays. He stared at the delicate nose visible beyond the bonnet’s brimmed profile. “Look at me, please. Now. I demand it.”

  She did not look at him, but after a long pause she did turn toward him. She shook his grasp off her arm and faced him. Long, thick dark lashes almost touched her snow white cheek.

  Something shivered through her. Anger? Fear? He had never before felt someone’s spirit react like he did in that moment.

  Those lashes rose. It was not the face that told him for certain. Not its oval shape or her dark hair or rose of a mouth. Rather it was the resignation and sorrow and hint of rebellion in her blue eyes.

  “Damnation, Verity. It is you.”

  Chapter Two

  “If she is not down here in two minutes I am going up there. I swear that I will tear this house down with my bare hands if I have to and—”