She would take it to their lesson tomorrow and they could read it together. She rather fancied a love story.
Then she began to wonder why she should wait. The clock had only just struck eleven. She wondered if Archie was still awake. What harm would come from investigating?
She set aside the book about the dog, retrieved her night wrapper from the chair, and slipped it on. Then she picked the pride book off the night table beside her bed. Perhaps it was a story about a woman with too much pride—such as she. That notion made her want to read it all the more quickly.
She hurried out of her bedchamber and down the hallway. A silly idea she'd had to put herself in one wing and Archie in the other. As though distance could keep her safe.
She stumbled with the thought. Safe, yes. She liked safety, but he'd already discovered her secret, so what did she fear now? Him and the power he could wield over her heart.
It was just a silly story. It would keep until tomorrow. That was the beauty of books. The story was always there. One had but to turn back the cover to find it.
Only she wanted to read it now, and she wanted to let Archie know that even though it had difficult words, she'd managed to get the gist of the idea. A man wanted a wife. And as she and Archie were both searching for spouses, they might enjoy reading the story together.
He'd brought her such joy, and she'd brought him so little, she felt a need to make it up to him and quickly. They would soon have guests arriving and she'd be devoting herself to the Duke of Kingsburrow—Kingsbridge!
Yes, they should begin reading tonight because they'd need to stop as soon as their guests arrived. She continued on, picking up her pace, more comfortable with her decision the farther away from her bedchamber she became.
She fairly flew down the stairs, rounded the corner, and nearly jumped out of her skin as the butler moved out of the shadows.
"Smythe, what a surprise! It's rather late for you to be up and about, isn't it?"
He looked momentarily startled as though he wasn't quite certain who'd spoken to him. She realized too late that her voice hadn't carried its usual tartness.
"I was making the final rounds," he finally said.
"And you're doing it splendidly. Do you know if his lordship is in his chambers?"
"Yes, madam, I believe he is."
"Jolly good. Back to your rounds, but don't stay up too late. You need your rest." And he certainly didn't need to see her coming back from the earl's bedchamber in the early hours of the morning. The thickness of the book led her to believe that they would be reading for quite some time.
The house was beastly large. It had never bothered her before, but Archie might as well be on the other side of the world. She was quite out of breath and ready to sit down by the time she reached his bedchamber door. She considered knocking but didn't want to wake him if he were asleep. However, if he was in the sitting area before the fireplace, then she would join him.
She opened the door a crack and was immediately greeted by light. Ah, so he wasn't asleep obviously. She swept into the room. "Archie, I was wondering—"
And froze.
He came to a halt at the same time. He'd been striding out of the dressing room and judging by the dampness of his hair, she assumed he'd only recently finished bathing.
And had yet to put on any clothing.
He was magnificent, standing there, facing her, apparently as stunned to see her as she was to see him. She'd viewed his chest before, but the rest of him…
My word.
She didn't think she'd spoken her thoughts aloud, but he suddenly came to life like a puppet whose strings had been yanked. He crossed over to the bed, grabbed his dressing gown, and slipped it on as though he had until dawn to do so. Not until he'd covered himself and secured the sash did he speak. "Camilla, I'd not expected to see you in here."
"I'd not expected to see you either." She sounded as though her voice came from the bottom of a well, and only then, did she realize that she'd ceased to breathe.
He angled his head. "Which begs the question, Countess. Whom did you think to find in my bedchamber?"
"You, of course. I simply meant that I'd not expected to see… all of you."
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned casually against his bedpost. "Why are you here, Camilla?"
"I was reading"—she'd never thought to say that about herself—"reading, Archie."
She stepped farther into the room. "But I was having a time of it, not knowing all the words, and thought perhaps you could help me with the difficult ones."
He dipped his gaze to the book she held in her trembling hands. When had they begun to shake?
"That's not a book from the children's room."
"No. It's from the library. I want to read it."
"It will contain many words you've not yet learned. You'll find it frustrating."
"Not if you help me. I thought we might read it together."
He shoved himself away from the bed, a secretive sort of grin playing along his mouth. "I'd like that. Come and sit on the sofa before the fire."
"I'll simply step out into the hallway and return after you're dressed."
"I'm dressed now."
"Barely."
"Enough."
He sat on the sofa and patted the cushion beside him. "Come on."
His gaze held a challenge, but kindness as well.
They were in their nightclothes, but they'd be on the sofa and nothing untoward could happen there. It was only the bed where danger lurked, and she certainly had no plans to climb into it with him.
She felt her head nod as though she had no control over it. She returned to the door, closed it, and tried not to notice how its resounding click sounded like a death knell.
Taking a deep breath, she walked across the room and sat on the sofa, as far from him as possible, her hip practically hugging the side of the sofa as though it were a lover.
"I can't help you if I can't see the words on the page," he said, and although he sounded innocent enough, she thought she detected a bit of a dare beneath the low rumble.
"I can simply pass the book over to you—"
"And then I'll have to search for where you were." Lazily, like a cat lengthening its body beneath the sun, he stretched his arm out along the back of the couch. "Move closer."
She glanced over at him. He was well and truly covered, exhibiting no evidence that he was interested in anything other than reading. She scooted over a bit, and his expression clearly said, "Not enough."
With a deep sigh, she moved nearer, straightened her nightclothes, and tried to ignore the warmth of his skin penetrating both the silk that covered his thigh and hip and the silk covering hers.
"Pride and Prejudice," he said, quietly.
She jerked her attention to him, her heart thudding as though he'd leaned near and whispered in her ear. Come to think of it, he was terribly close, and she thought his breath might be ruffling the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. Her braid was trapped between her back and the couch, and she felt him tugging on it.
"The title of the book," he murmured as though understanding her confusion.
"Oh, yes, I knew it was pride and something." She looked at the title and focused on the third word, cataloging it to memory so she'd recognize it when next she saw it.
"I understand it's a story quite favored by the ladies," he said.
She turned back to him. Was he nearer? He was holding the end of her braid, brushing the tip across his lips the way a painter might apply a light coating of paint to canvas. "Have you not read it then?"
A corner of his mouth curled upward. "I've read it."
"I envy you. You've read a good many books."
"You should never envy anyone without knowing what price they paid to acquire the very thing that you envy."
"What price did you pay?"
His smile dissolved as though it had never been. "Not nearly as high a price as you paid to be a countess. Let's read, sha
ll we?"
Reading was certainly preferable to rehashing her desire—no her need—to gain a title, to hold on to it, and to reach a bit higher. She opened the book and began reading, quite quickly since she'd read it once before already. "It is a truth…"
She peered up at him. He seemed to be looking at the flames dancing on the hearth, the end of her braid held against his lips as one might hold a lover's mouth.
She cleared her throat. He shifted his attention to her and raised an eyebrow.
"I thought you were going to follow along," she said.
"I am."
"If that were the case then you would know that you are to fill in the next word."
"Perhaps you should tell me what you think it is."
"If I thought it were anything, I would have said."
"You can't memorize every word ever written. You need to learn to decipher a word based on the sounds that the letters make."
She released a wearisome sigh. "It is close to midnight. We are not having a lesson. I want to read this story and I want you to read the words that I don't know. A little like playing together on the piano." "Universally."
"Universally what?" she asked, wondering what in the devil he was talking about. "Universally acknowledged." "What's universally acknowledged?" He brushed the end of her braid along her cheek, and she wondered why it was a more sensual fluttering when he did it than when she did. "The words you can't read in the book are universally and acknowledged."
"Oh! Oh, I see. I didn't realize you'd returned your attention to the story."
"I hadn't. My attention is still on you." She was beginning to think that coming here was a frightfully bad idea, but she couldn't seem to bring herself to close the book and leave. "Then how do you know those are the words?" "Because I caught a glimpse of them when you first began to read, before I looked away."
"And that's all you require to be able to read them?" "Yes."
"Will I ever be able to read like that?" He stilled his hand, and she felt the power of his gaze as it roamed over her face. "I believe you can do anything that you set your mind to."
"I never want anyone to be able to guess that I came into reading so late in my life."
"Ah, yes, you are quite the ancient one, aren't you?"
"Don't make light of my concerns, Archie."
"I'm not. And no one will ever hear from me that you've only recently mastered reading. I will warn you now, however, that you'd best not pick up a book this thick in front of a gathering and expect to read it aloud word for word."
"I wouldn't dream of it." Although she had, on numerous occasions. Open a book and regale her audience with her mastery of reading. Share a story with them. She wanted to read to an audience the way a diva wished to raise her voice in song during an opera. She returned her gaze to the book and read a bit more haltingly than she would have liked, "It is a truth… universally acknowledged… that a…"
"Single."
"Single man in…" She hated that the really large words were so difficult.
"Possession."
She'd know that word the next time she saw it.
"Of a good…" she continued, then stopped.
"Fortune."
"Must be in want of a wife."
"Therefore, I must be in want of a wife."
She snapped her gaze to his. "Of course you are. You are in possession of a good fortune. And I am in want of a husband because I am not in possession of a good fortune. Is that another universal truth do you think? In regard to women?"
"Undoubtedly. But there is another truth of greater importance."
"What would that be?"
"That you are beautiful beyond measure."
He slid his hand along her shoulder until his long slender fingers came to rest against the nape of her neck, and his thumb was stroking the underside of her jaw… slowly, provocatively, and she had the strangest desire to dip her head slightly and run her tongue along his thumb, perhaps draw it into her mouth.
Where in the world did that notion come from?
She'd certainly never felt that way about any gentleman, certainly not Lucien, who'd come the closest to touching her in this manner—only his hand around her throat had usually meant that he wished to choke her.
"Please," she pleaded, "I can't be what you want."
She dipped her gaze to discover that his robe had parted, no longer hiding him from her view or keeping his longing out of sight. She lifted her gaze back to his. "I shouldn't have come here this late at night, " she rasped.
"It wouldn't matter when you came here, my reaction would be the same."
"Not if you knew the truth."
Her words gave him pause, she could tell because surprise flitted across his face like a flame trying to remain alight, only to die out. He released a wearisome sigh. "What other secret are you hoarding?"
She'd thought he'd turn away from her when he discovered she couldn't read. But he hadn't. Oh, there had been anger in his eyes, but only because she'd kept the truth from him. Afterward, he'd done all in his power to give her the gift of reading. He'd proven she wasn't stupid or ignorant. She was smart, she could learn.
She could hide her final secret in the dark from her duke, but she didn't think Archie was a man who'd be content with the darkness. He liked too much to look at everything in the light so he could completely understand it.
She could walk out now, and they would never have more than this. There would never be complete trust between them. And after all he'd given her, she thought it cruel to judge for him rather than to allow him to judge for himself.
Very deliberately, she closed the book and set it aside. Slowly, ever so slowly, without looking at him, she released all the buttons on her nightgown, from her throat to her navel. She'd quite literally had it beaten into her that she was worthless. She'd never wanted anyone to know.
But he had a right to know. The knowledge would tamp his desire… forever.
Shifting on the sofa, she faced him, still not looking at him. She couldn't stop her fingers from shaking as she took hold of the parted cloth and peeled it back farther. "He took a riding crop to me when I disappointed or displeased him."
He didn't move. He made no sound.
She finally dared to lift her gaze to his and saw burning within his eyes what she'd never expected to witness from Archie…
Pure, unadulterated hatred.
* * *
Chapter 16
Arch stood like a man possessed. Rage burned through him, nearly blinding him, and he didn't know what to do with it, where to unleash it. He crossed over to the fireplace and with one long mighty swipe, he knocked everything off the marble mantel: the golden candlesticks, the crystal vases, the statuettes.
Then he spread his arms wide, gripped the cold mantel, and held firm because, if he didn't, he thought he'd destroy everything else in this room, everything in his house. Bowing his head, he took in great draughts of air, trying to still the fury that caused his body to tremble.
Little wonder she didn't trust, little wonder she hoarded secrets. He'd seen in her eyes what it had cost her to reveal her scars to him, tiny slashes that marred her skin. He'd seen the shame, the mortification, and been unable to offer comfort because in that instant he'd wanted to commit murder… and he could have done it without feeling a bit of guilt.
"I'm terribly sorry," she said softly.
"No," he growled. "Never apologize for anything that he did."
His arms aching from the tension in his shoulders, he released his hold on the mantel and faced her. She was on her feet, the movement apparently closing her gown, although she'd yet to rebutton it, so he was left to view the tiniest gap of shadowy skin.
"The wonder of it is that you have any desire to marry at all," he said.
"I know that not all men are as he was. But neither are all men as you are, wanting the whole truth or none of it, wanting to see and understand every thread that has been woven together to make me who I am.
"No." He shook his head. "The secrets are only a part of you and now they are… gone. And what remains before my eyes is a woman who endured, but didn't lose her humanity. A woman who rushes to a fire in her bare feet and her night-clothes, a woman who gives to the needy and takes no credit, who pours imaginary tea for little girls." He took a step toward her.
"You have amazed me from the moment I met you. You accomplished more without the ability to read than most people do with it. And when the opportunity to learn was presented to you, you snatched it up… again amazing me with how quickly you mastered the skill."
He took her face between his hands, watched as the tears in her eyes flowed onto her cheeks. "I told you once that I thought I could love a woman such as you. Now I know. I do. I do love you."
Still holding her head, he lowered his mouth to hers with all the tenderness that he could bring forth. He wanted this to be the last time that he ever tasted her tears when he kissed her. She wrapped her hands around his forearms, holding tightly, but he didn't have the impression that she wished to shove him away but rather that she simply wanted to touch him. He couldn't imagine the burden of never sharing one's true self with anyone, of having no one to trust completely. He'd grown up in a house of honesty, where imperfections were accepted. In truth, he found perfection rather dull.
Yet he would have done anything to have spared her the suffering she'd experienced at the hands of one of his relations. God, the thought sickened him. He and the man who'd done this to her shared the same blood. It was disgusting, sickening, revolting.
He heard a quiet moan, one of rising passion, and he realized that whatever had happened between her and the old Sachse had no place in his bedchamber, in their lives. It was over with. Done.
It wasn't his place to make amends. It was his place to love her as she deserved to be loved.
He slid his mouth to her throat, slid his hands to her shoulders. He wanted the gown gone, but he needed her to understand that nothing about her person revolted him. None of her secrets revealed mattered. All that was of importance was that he loved her, adored her.
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