Night Storm

by Catherine Coulter

  It was done. Very smoothly, Genny thought. Not one of them would realize that their master didn’t recognize them. Worrying about Alec had markedly reduced her terror at meeting his servants. It wasn’t until Genny was walking beside her husband up the wide curving staircase that she was again flooded with feelings of absolute worthlessness.

  Her voice filled with awe and insecurity, she asked, “Are they all your ancestors?”

  “Those folks covering the walls? I haven’t the foggiest notion. Probably. They look arrogant enough.”

  She forced herself to smile, for Mrs. Britt was following behind them.

  The baroness’s bedchamber adjoined the master suite and it was into this large, darkened room that Mrs. Brittled Genny. It was somewhat eclectic in its furnishings, more feminine than Genny either liked or was used to, the predominant shades of peach and pale blue in the carpeting, in the counterpane, and on all the chairs. The room reeked of disuse. Alec stood beside Genny, aware of the tension that was holding her rigid, and not quite understanding it. He supposed it was simple enough, really. She didn’t care for the room. It was, he remembered, quite different from hers back in Baltimore. He said easily, “Come with me into the master suite, my dear. We’ll see how you like it. Who knows, perhaps you’ll decide to share it with me.”

  This brought a snort of what seemed to be disapproval from Mrs. Britt, and a look of complete relief from his wife.

  For Alec, of course, it was like stepping into a brand-new room, replete with furnishings he’d never before seen, an ambience he’d never felt before. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

  There was waist-high wainscoting of a rich mahogany on every wall. The draperies were heavy gold velvet, the furnishings Spanish—heavy and dark and substantial. His first reaction was one of dislike. The room was somber and depressing as the devil. He thought of the books he’d read about the Spanish Inquisition and wondered if his father had been a devotee.

  “My God,” Genny said, gazing about her in awe, “this reminds me of a painting by a Spaniard called Francisco Goya I saw in Mr. Tolliver’s house in Baltimore. It’s so very gloomy, Alec.”

  “Then you will simply eliminate all of this and have it refurbished and repainted and whatever else you deem necessary. Your suite as well. Or you can forget about your room and simply share mine.”

  And that, Alec hoped, seeing her eyes light up with enthusiasm, should get her through her initial period of newness in this house, in London.

  To Genny, there seemed to be no end to the opulence, to the deference paid to the master and the mistress. Even though she was a colonial, she was still to be tolerated, and with proper civility. Every servant put his or her best face on it and called her “my lady.” Everything reeked of wealth—old wealth—and privilege, and so many generations of an inbred sense of self-worth, that Alec, even with no memory of his surroundings at all, fitted right in, without a pause, all his natural charm and graciousness at one with him and with those who served him. He was admired by every one of his retainers, including the scullery maid, protected by them and given their complete and unquestioned loyalty.

  The day after their arrival, Alec left Genny to visit his solicitor. It was upon his return via St. James Street that he was waved down by a lady holding a charming parasol. He wondered if she wasn’t freezing. The day was frigid, no wind to speak of, but just a bone-chilling cold that made him shudder—and he was wearing a monstrously warm greatcoat. He’d found the baron’s wardrobe to be filled with clothes that he also liked. Something of an irony, that, and it made him smile. One of the very few things that had made him smile.

  He pulled his horse to a stop and said, flourishing his beaver hat, “Good afternoon. How are you?”

  She was a redhead, tall, deep-bosomed, and her eyes were wild with passionate depths. She would be uninhibited and utterly frenzied in bed. He didn’t know how he knew this, but he was certain that it was true. Had he slept with her?

  “Alec! You’re home at last. It has been far too long, my dear man. Ah, this is wonderful. Do come to my house this evening. It’s just a small soiree, but you’ll see all your friends.”

  “He doesn’t look like he recognizes you, Eileen.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Cocky,” said Eileen, her voice sharp as she turned on her companion, a tulip, replete with a monstrous cravat that nearly reached his earlobes, a lavender pair of morning breeches, and highly polished Hessians. His greatcoat was of the palest yellow. He was a vision and Alec winced. He recognized the man as a macaroni, but not the man himself.

  “Cocky,” Alec said and bowed slightly from his saddle.

  “Do come, old man. Eileen is still on Clayborn Street, you know, number seven.”

  “I’ll tell everyone you’re back in London.”

  Alec nodded. He’d decide later what excuses to send to Clayborn Street. Right now, he had a great deal on his mind. None of it was pleasant. There were plans to put into motion.

  An hour later, Alec faced his wife across the breakfast table in a small circular room that was blessed with privacy, coziness, and a fireplace.

  Genny’s attention was upon her husband. “What is it, Alec? What did your lawy—solicitor say?”

  “His name is Jonathan Rafer. He’s known me since I was in leading strings and was a great friend of my father’s. His wife will send over some of her chef’s popsy cake, a favorite of mine, Mr. Rafer told me.”

  He sounded angry. He stopped talking and speared a slice of ham on his fork. He chewed on it thoughtfully, taking in the delicate furnishings of this small room. It was well done. He wondered who was responsible.

  “You don’t care for the main dining room?” he asked Genny.

  “It’s too cold to use and it’s much too large for just the two of us.”

  He said nothing to that fine logic.

  “The solicitor, Mr. Rafer, Alec.”

  “There appears to be evil at work, according to Mr. Rafer. The local magistrate, a Sir Edward Mortimer, claims it was the work of discontented tenants of mine. He claims the tenants murdered the steward and set fire to the Grange. I’ll be leaving in a couple of days for Carrick Grange to get to the bottom of this mess. Unfortunately, Mr. Rafer didn’t go to the Grange, merely reported to me what he’d heard from Sir Edward. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, but—”

  “Hallie and I will go with you, naturally.”

  “I’m not a invalid, Eugenia.”

  “No, you’re not, but that isn’t the point. Where will you stay in Northumberland? In a gutted bedchamber? Who will see to your meals? Who will see to your people? Who will see to the rebuilding and refurbishing of the Grange?” She stopped, realizing she’d gone too far. It was true that she fully intended to be completely involved in these things, but she wasn’t certain how Alec would react to that. More to the point, none of that really mattered. She simply couldn’t bear to be apart from him.

  “The majority of your list could be accomplished by servants.”

  “And who will sleep with you every night? More servants?”

  “Who knows? The countryside of England can’t be totally bereft of available females. Cut line, Genny. There could be danger. I have no memory of tenants who could have done such a thing, but who knows? You will remain here in London, safe, both you and my daughter.”

  “Alec, both you and I survived a great deal more danger in that hurricane. I can’t imagine why you’re getting so excited about a simple jaunt into the English countryside.”

  The Alec of old spoke in a voice that reeked of centuries of arrogance, control, and dominance. “I’ve made up my mind, Genny. You’re my wife and you’ll obey me. You will remain here. I will take no risks with your health or that of my unborn child. Now, please pass me the carrots.”

  That made her see red. “You will not leave me here, alone, in a strange house, in an equally strange city, surrounded by strangers. It’s cruel and you can’t do it.”

  That gave him a moment’
s pause. There was some logic to what she said. Well, even that was neatly to be solved, thanks to a woman with very passionate eyes named Eileen. “Tonight we’re going to meet some friends. For you. They’re mine now, evidently. The woman giving the soiree is Eileen, and the gentleman with her was named Cocky. I don’t know who they are, but I do know where the lady lives. We’ll go. Perhaps someone’s face will jog my lamentable memory. In any case, you will meet some people and hopefully make some friends.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  Alec tossed his napkin down on the table. “I don’t care what you wish or don’t wish to do. You will accompany me tonight and that’s the end to it. Be ready, Eugenia, by eight o’clock.”

  He strode out of the small breakfast room.

  Twenty-one

  Genny didn’t want to go out. She didn’t want to meet strangers who were also foreigners to her. She didn’t want to meet a woman named Eileen who was very probably in love with Alec. The London weather reflected her mood. It was cold and drizzling, the air heavy with fog. She paced the pale blue Aubusson carpet in her bedchamber, angry with her autocratic husband, telling the empty room all her woes.

  She also felt fat. Alec hadn’t bothered to concern himself about the fact that his wife had fewer gowns by the day, probably none at all suitable for an evening with London society. She had one gown that fitted her, and that one just barely. It was an old gown from the days before Alec and his shopping expeditions with her. She’d always thought it very pretty, but now, staring in the mirror, she wasn’t so certain. She’d gotten so used to seeing herself in gowns that Alec had approved. And there was the matter of her overflowing bosom. Something had to be done.

  Genny knew it would be grossly improper to show so much of herself in public. What she didn’t know was what to do about it. She remembered suddenly that long-ago evening when she’d sewn lace on her gown, wanting to make herself prettier for Alec. So she wasn’t a seamstress of note. She shrugged her shoulders. She would do better this time. She ripped a piece of lace from a gown that was too small and sewed it into the neckline. Her stitches weren’t all that even, but neither were they all that crooked. The result wasn’t bad, she thought, eyeing her work closely. So there were a few knots, a few spots where the lace was bunched up a bit. She sighed. She’d done the best she could. At least she wasn’t half naked anymore.

  She remembered the white velvet bows on that gown she’d worn to the Baltimore Assembly room. She remembered how she and Alec had both ripped off those damnable bows until there had been a pile on the floor between them. Well, Alec didn’t remember. She was very tempted to track him down and ask him how she looked. But no, she thought, she was fine, just fine, and besides, she was more than perturbed with him. She imagined that he’d give her the gratuitous brunt of his tongue. And there wasn’t one single white velvet bow for anyone to take exception to. She gave herself one last long look in the mirror, felt a moment’s insecurity, then squared her shoulders and came away.

  Alec was waiting for her. He was dressed like a royal prince, at least to Genny’s jaundiced eye, in black evening clothes and a pristine white shirt and cravat. He looked beautiful, but his normally warm eyes were cold as they rested briefly on her. A slight frown drew a line between his brows.

  She merely nodded, remembering that she was not on the best of terms with him. She didn’t want him to forget it.

  “Shall we go?”

  She nodded again and swept past him to the carriage. A footman held an umbrella over her head until Alec assisted her inside. She heard him give their driver directions—a man he called Collin—then he joined her in the carriage. He didn’t ask her if she was cold, just merely covered her legs with a carriage blanket.

  Alec settled back against the swabs. He was still a bit miffed with his wife for her rank stubbornness. He wasn’t used to such behavior from her. Ah, but she did look lovely. She hadn’t worn that cloak since that one evening aboard the Night Dancer some three weeks before. Oddly enough, she’d told him that he’d selected the material, color, and style for the cloak and the matching gown. That had surprised him. He’d loved slipping his hands underneath the cloak and stroking her breasts through the equally lovely gown beneath. He found himself growing randy and supposed it was more healthy than anger. It was certainly more pleasurable.

  He grinned in the darkness. It wasn’t her fault, not entirely anyway. He had been rather presumptuous, rather domineering. He said easily, “The woman’s name is Eileen Blanchard, Lady Ramsey, a widow. I thought I was being subtle with my sly questions to March, and you know what he said?” Genny didn’t pursue an answer, so Alec continued. “He told me that Moses—a fine fellow—had informed him of my small problem, and it was a good thing that he had—fine fellow that he is—and that it would be a matter of the greatest discretion. I wasn’t to worry. Everything would be taken care of.” Alec grinned toward his silent wife. “He made me feel like I was seven years old. Then he told me he didn’t know much about this Eileen, but he recalled that I’d liked her well enough. Thank the Lord he knew her full name.”

  Genny felt a smile lurking at the corners of her mouth. When he gently picked up her gloved hand and patted it, she sighed and turned to him.

  “Hello,” he said and kissed her, very gently. “You do look lovely, Genny. I like your hair like that.”

  “Mrs. Britt insisted. You truly like it braided up in a coronet?”

  “Yes, I certainly do, and I like the way the loose tendrils caress your face. I especially like the tendrils that curl down the back of your neck. Very wanton, very—”

  “Not abandoned, please.”

  He kissed her again. He touched his fingertips to her warm lips. “Forgive me for my abruptness with you today. I am sorry. I don’t want you to worry about this evening. I won’t leave you adrift amongst strangers. I am assuming that the people I did know are decent and will thus prove likable.”

  Genny had to be content with that. He could manipulate her so easily. She knew it, railed against it, but never railed enough.

  As for Alec, he kissed her again, loving the taste of her, the feel of her soft mouth. He would like very much to slip his hands beneath that cloak and fondle her breasts, but he held back.

  He hoped that the staff were treating her well. He knew that they did—at least in front of him—but she was different, she was American, and she wasn’t used to having a servant assist her in dressing. That had brought an appalled cry from Mrs. Britt, who cried again to Pippin, who in turn had informed Alec as he was dressing for the evening, “She thinks Genny has to be something of a savage, Capt’n—my lord. She didn’t say it in so many words, but I think she thinks that Genny trapped you into marriage after your accident.” Pippin had then grinned from ear to ear, disregarding Alec’s frown. “Not to worry, my lord. My guinea’s on Genny if it comes to a fracas. But Mrs. Britt will come about, you’ll see. I just thought you should know the lay of the land.”

  Well, Mrs. Britt had arranged Genny’s hair and done so charmingly.

  They arrived and were duly assisted from the carriage by a footman holding an umbrella. When they reached the reception line in the main salon, Alec removed his wife’s cloak and handed it to a waiting footman. When he turned back again, he sucked in his breath in consternation. He whipped around to catch the footman, but the fellow was gone.

  Where had she gotten that god-awful gown? She looked worse than a fright. Her gown, a strange shade of dark green that made her look horribly sallow, was too small, pulling terribly across her shoulders and breasts. The style was beyond anything Alec could have created as a model of bad taste. There were six ruffles, starting below her breast and ending at the hem, each one an even stranger shade of dark green. At her bosom there was a row of white lace sewn in crookedly. Suddenly in his mind’s eye he saw Genny wearing another gown with a row of lace sewn into the bodice. He saw himself staring, then chuckling.

  Alec shook his head. He swallowed. The image disa
ppeared, followed by an even more unusual one. Genny was standing in front of him, and there was a pile of white velvet bows on the floor between them. He saw her rip one off. Then he ripped one off. What the devil was going on here? He shook his head again and the memory flitted away. He was once more firmly planted in the present. Standing beside her and looking down, he could see her nipples. He hadn’t thought, hadn’t realized—but good Lord, she was a woman, a lady. She’d always dressed in lovely clothes. Where had this awful apparition come from? Was it a punishment? Had she worn it on purpose to embarrass him?

  Oh, God, what to do?

  He said in a low, furious voice, “Genny, we’re leaving now. I will have quite a bit to say to you later.” He grabbed her hand, but it was too late.

  “Why, good evening, Alec. So wonderful to see you here.” Eileen Blanchard held out her hand to him.

  Alec took it and raised it to his lips. “Hello, Eileen.” There was no hope for it. They were trapped for at least five minutes. Then he would get his wife out of here and home.

  “This is my wife, Genny. My dear, this is Eileen Blanchard.”

  She was lovely, Genny thought, and smiled her friendliest smile. “Hello.”

  “Your wife.” Eileen took in every inch of Genny in a remarkably short number of seconds and laughed. “Really, Alec, you are far too amusing.” She laughed again, not a nice sound at all, Genny thought, staring at the woman. “Wife!” Eileen repeated, her laughter nearly making her gasp for breath. “A fine joke, my lord, but enough is enough. Do you want to insult your friends? Send the doxy on her way and I will allow you to waltz with me.”

  Doxy!

  Genny heaved fury but managed to hold her temper. The last thing she needed was to fall out of her gown. “I am not a doxy,” she said loudly. “I’m Alec’s wife.”