She had stuffed them, sopping wet, into the back of the wardrobe, and when they were dried, she furtively threw them in the fire. Her hair ribbons were constantly going missing, then turning up in the oddest places. Something pinched her foot one night. She found it to be her mother’s brooch tucked in the bed linens, one she hadn’t seen for years. Not since…the accident.
After her father left, she closed her eyes and drew in a shaking breath. She tried to tell herself not to worry, that she was feeling stronger, and whatever malady had come over her was receding. By the time Adam returned home, she would be fully restored to her normal state. She had to believe that.
And for a while, she did.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Adam returned to Rathford Manor on the fourth of February. Upon entering the house, he asked after his wife’s whereabouts. Jack informed him, his lips rather set and stiff, that he believed Lady Helena was in the solarium.
There was a wealth of innuendo in the look the footman gave him, but Adam didn’t take the time to inquire about it.
Helena was seated with the sun streaming in through the windows that stretched all the way from the floor to the twelve-foot-high ceiling. An opened book lay on her lap, ignored as she stared out onto the overgrown lawns that stretched in descending terraces all the way to the low wall of piled stone bordering the back of the property where the clearing met the woods.
He paused, taking in her profile, the lovely curve of her fine-boned nose, the high forehead unblemished by any lines of concern. Shadows delineated the hollows under her cheekbones. Her full lips were parted in relaxation.
She was so lovely. Something queer dipped in the region of his chest. He started toward her, his footfalls softly hollow on the slate floor. She turned at the sound. The serious expression she wore transformed into one of pleasure. Those perfect lips widened and smiled.
God. The effect of her reaction washed hotly through his veins. He wanted to sweep her into his arms. He almost did, taking a step toward her with his arms outstretched before the veil dropped over the evidence of her delight and her chin came up haughtily. He blinked, rethinking the impulse to hold her, and dropped his arms. He smiled a milder version of the delight that had betrayed him a moment ago. “Hello, Helena.”
“Adam,” she said, her voice a tad cool.
She was dressed in a pretty gown of a soft purple the color of grapes. It was trimmed in ecru ribbon. Her hair hung in loose curls from a topknot and splayed over her shoulders. She looked like an empress, he thought. A beautiful, untouchable, remote icon of Roman beauty.
“You seem well recovered.” His voice, he was glad to note, sounded casual. “Your father told me in his letters of your rapid progress, but it is good to see for myself.”
“Good as new,” she said, lifting her hands. He saw they trembled a bit before she laid them back on her lap.
But she wasn’t good as new. That haunted quality was still there, intangible and elusive and as impermeable a barrier as…as that wall down there that sheltered the tamed lawns from the wildness of the forest.
“What are you reading?”
She glanced at the book on her lap. “A romantic novel. Something silly to while away the time.”
“You’ve been spending too much time in the house, I think.” He pulled up a wrought-iron chair, scraping it rudely across the stones. “It must get wearing.”
“Mrs. Kent won’t allow me to do anything. I used to be so busy I didn’t have time for anything else. Now, I’m bored to tears and reduced to reading this stuff.” She glanced down and blushed. “Actually, I do usually enjoy Mrs. Radcliff’s novels. I suppose it’s just that I’ve had my fill reading, with no other distraction to break the monotony.”
“Poor girl. I’ll take you back out to the woods when the weather breaks.”
Her aloof mien faltered and she almost smiled. “That would be pleasant.”
Why did it feel as if they were strangers? And he had the strangest, most acute sensation that she was holding something back. More secrets?
He shook off the thought. He was back at Rathford Manor, with Helena, and he had thought about this moment every day for all the weeks he’d been gone. He wasn’t going to let her inexplicable reserve ruin it.
He leaned forward, sending her a winning glance. “Let’s have a game of cards, shall we? It will be more interesting than that novel.”
She flushed girlishly, obviously liking the idea, although she tried valiantly to maintain her cool stance. “I suppose. What do you wish to play?”
“I’m not that versed in genteel games, so you choose.”
Her eyes glinted mischievously, the first sign of her old spirit he’d yet seen. “I am wicked good at whist.”
“Ah! A gambling girl, are you? I don’t know if I should. I swore off laying money on cards.”
She was genuinely shocked. “Did you? I hadn’t known.”
How odd. Did they know that little about each other, then? “Of course. The gaming tables haven’t been good to me. My ineptitude at gambling is what brought me here in the first place, you know.” Too late, he realized his error. Her eyelashes lowered and he cursed his tactlessness. He added, almost nonchalantly, “On second thought, perhaps the entire circumstance has been good. It all worked out rather to my liking in the end, didn’t it?”
Her gaze slanted up at him, and again he was struck with how frightened she could look sometimes. What the devil was she so afraid of?
“Let’s go into the parlor.” He stood. “We’ll have tea brought in.”
“Yes.” She rose and he watched her covertly, studying her movements for any sign of lingering weakness. She seemed strong enough, even if the glance she shot him was uncertain.
Reaching out on impulse, he took her hand and pulled it through his, placing it on his forearm. It felt slender and fragile, like a small bird resting there. He covered it with his own, holding tight. “It’s good to be home, Helena.”
“You are cheating!” Helena declared an hour later as he won another rubber.
“How dare you accuse me,” Adam countered without a trace of indignation. He looked at her mildly. “You are merely being a poor sport because I’m winning.”
“Then you lied to me. You said you had no luck at card games.”
“I said I had no luck at the gaming tables. This is true. Whist, as you know, is a parlor game. It is not generally played for high stakes. All fours, now, that’s a deadly trick, that one. No, whist is quite a different matter. As it happens, I am quite good at it.”
“You misled me,” she said again with mock belligerence.
Adam shrugged. “I might have.”
Helena wanted to laugh. She bit back the impulse. Adam was being his utmost charming self, teasing her and dazzling her with his skillful handling of the cards—he could shuffle in the most amazing ways—and sleights of hand. It was impossible to stay angry with him.
He was trying hard to amuse her. And being quite successful at it. Why, he even looked happy to be with her. It showed in his attentive conversation, the affectionate glow in his dark eyes.
And she was so happy to have him here. It felt like an eternity since he had left her. Business. She hadn’t known whether to believe him on that score. Had it been business or that plump morsel of voluptuousness, Trina, that had lured him to London?
If not her, then someone else, perhaps. It was true their marriage of convenience had developed into a pleasant association, but that didn’t transform it from the reality of what it was. Theirs was a union based on necessity and a cordial understanding of Adam’s need for money and her…her need…
Anyway, most men strayed. It was understood. Wives tolerated it and it was best not to dwell on it and spoil these light, enjoyable moments when he was so attentive and delightfully hers.
But…she didn’t want Adam to stray. The very thought choked her, lying thick and heavy on her chest. And she couldn’t forget it, either, or tolerate it in the least.<
br />
“That rubber goes to me.” He was mockingly triumphant.
“This is ridiculous. How can one play a decent rubber of whist with only two people?”
“We modified the game nicely.” He leaned forward, his liquid eyes gleaming. “And you agreed to the rules.”
“That was with the understanding that you were no good at the game. You took shameless advantage.”
“Of course I did. Isn’t that expected?”
“I think it unfair.”
“Ah, I see I shall have to make it up to you.” He leaned back and folded his arms over his chest, looking like the genie in Arabian Nights—all mystery and otherworldly power.
Her heart skittered. A tight knot of desire twisted in her belly. Her attraction to him was nearly irresistible. He said, “I shall save it for a surprise. Speaking of surprises, I nearly forgot….” He fished in the breast pocket of his coat and handed her a small box. “I trust I’ll not find this in the porridge,” he added with a devilish expression.
She didn’t know whether to be insulted or not. But the lure of the proffered gift proved too diverting. She opened the box.
“Oh. What a beautiful ring!”
Adam indicated the stone. “A fire opal. I thought it would become you.” He took the box and put it aside. “It’s mysterious.”
She looked at him askance. “This romantic streak of yours is growing.”
He looked horrified. “No need to insult me.”
She didn’t even try to suppress her giggles.
He indicated the ring. “Put it on. I guessed at the size.”
It fit nicely on the middle finger of her right hand. “I like it very much.” It was a pretty piece, much more to her taste than the gaudy, expensive pieces she had inherited from her mother. What’s more, the fact that he had thought of her during his trip touched her. “But you don’t keep having to bring me gifts every time you go away.”
“I want to. It allays my guilt for having to leave.”
Guilt? Was his guilt from the indiscretions he committed while away? The thought soured her pleasure and brought a recollection of Kimberly’s goading words: Buying gifts with her own money, to keep the golden goose content.
Determinedly, Helena pushed the disturbing thoughts aside. “Thank you so much, Adam,” she said.
“That is not a proper thank-you.”
She looked up, taken aback by this. The way he was looking at her—the heat in his eyes—was impossible to misinterpret. Her insides curled like parchment singed by a close-burning flame.
The playing table was between them, seeming a daunting obstacle. Adam leaned on his elbow, spanning most of the distance, the corners of his lips curled with unspoken suggestion. Hesitantly, she came forward, too, closing the rest of the space until she could feel the soft brush of his breath on her cheek. His hand cupped her jaw, fingers splayed along her cheek and neck. They were very warm, stroking in a way that made her pulse jump.
He lowered his mouth. It was the gentlest of kisses he gave her, touching lightly, barely grazing his lips over hers. She stayed transfixed after that too-fleeting brush, eyes closed, wanting more. Waiting to see what he would do next.
His fingers tightened against the flushed skin of her cheek. She could hear his breathing, deep and labored. His nose nuzzled her, pushing her head back and to one side.
He kissed her again, and she turned into it. His hand crept up to cup the back of her neck and hold her steady. Working his mouth against her, he touched his tongue to the seam of her lips and she opened to him.
She had missed him so terribly, missed this—these feelings, this burning he could awaken within her. She was disappointed when his grip slackened and he broke off. “There.” He smiled into her eyes. “A proper thank-you should always involve a kiss.”
He leaned back in his seat and brought his attention back down to their card game. Touching her throbbing lips with her tongue, she said nothing as she watched him make his play after a moment’s concentration. Looking back up at her, he grinned. “I believe I’ve won again.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Did you see Helena?” Lord Rathford asked when he entered his study.
“Right off when I arrived.” Adam was at the library table, pouring a stiff whiskey into a tumbler. He held up the glass in silent question. “We took tea together and played a rubber of cards.”
Lord Rathford shook his head with a cross frown, declining the offer of a drink. “How did she seem?”
The question surprised Adam. “Well enough. Bored.” He took a sip and moved to a chair. “Her illness is wearing on her.”
“I meant her mood.”
Sitting back, he considered the question. “Cool at first, but I don’t think she understands why I had to go to London. To be honest, I can’t say I had much appreciation for the timing. I didn’t like having to leave her when she was just getting over all of that, the fire and the illness.”
“That’s right, you had pressing business to attend to.” Rathford narrowed his eyes. “Did everything go well?”
“Very well, thank you for your interest,” Adam answered mildly. He didn’t want to brag, but “well” was as wild an understatement as there was. He had been able to join a consortium of investors who were acquiring interest in the overseas spice trade and reestablishing merchant lines with the colonies—states, he mentally corrected. They would be dealing with East Indies sugar, tobacco and cotton grown in the southern American states, metals from the northern ones, and the return journeys would bring the Americas Scottish wool, Oriental spices and French wines and textiles.
Rathford nodded with approval. “I’d like to hear more about it, but not tonight.” He sat back and surveyed Adam as that one brought his drink to the leather chair. “I wanted us to adjourn in here because what we say is to remain private.”
The glass halfway to his mouth, Adam paused. He looked up. “What is wrong?”
“I…I am concerned about my daughter.”
“She is just lonely.” Adam shrugged. “She was already improved after a rather haphazard game of cards.” He remembered the kiss and the lively flush it had brought to her cheeks, but naturally didn’t mention it. “Now that she is well, she will be restored to her old routines. This is all she needs to improve her.”
Rathford was not mollified. His dark look remained fixed on Adam. “She’s been behaving oddly lately. You remember the ear bobs? The stables?”
Adam shifted in his seat. “She was ill. Ill people are sometimes forgetful.”
“She told Mrs. Kent there was an intruder in her room one night. Of course, there was no one. She…walks about when everyone is abed. The servants see her, yet she always denies it when asked later.”
“What exactly is your concern?” Adam snapped. He knew his anger was unreasonable, but he couldn’t control it. “That she has trouble sleeping some nights and had a nightmare that seemed so real she thought there actually was someone in her rooms? Perhaps there was. Were her rooms searched? Or it could be that ghoul—Kimberly. Get her away from Helena, and you’d have no more problems, I’ll wager.”
Rathford gave his son-in-law a steely stare. “She said the intruder was a man, and that he disappeared.”
“Then it was a nightmare, as I said. One that seemed real, but was just a dream all the same and nothing to fear at all.” Adam heard the tightness in his own voice. In the silence that followed, he felt the very air around him thicken like some atmospheric aspic.
There clearly was something to fear. Rathford feared it.
“What is it?” Adam asked urgently, unable to maintain his stance of unconcern.
The old man raised a trembling hand to his forehead to wipe the line of sweat that had appeared. “I am afraid of madness,” he said in a whisper that was at once both harsh and trembling. “I am afraid that the madness of her mother has come upon her.”
He looked at his son-in-law, his face full of guilt. Then he couldn’t look Adam in the e
ye any longer. His gaze fell and he said, “There’s something I have to tell you. The truth.” He swiped away the sweat beading on his upper lip. “It’s time you knew the truth.”
It was strange how one moment could alter the world. Adam stood in his bedroom that night after the house had fallen asleep, and reflected that in the space of one quarter of an hour, everything had changed.
Rathford had, as promised, told him the truth.
And the truth was that his wife, Helena—lovely, ethereal, fragile, mysterious Helena—was a murderess. She had killed her mother.
Her mother had been mad, Rathford had explained with blanched face and glazed eyes. Mad with ambition for her daughter, whom she believed deserved nothing less than the Duke of Strathmere. So she had killed the elder brother and his wife, narrowly and miraculously missing killing their two children in the bargain. But as they were females and could not inherit, she didn’t trouble to finish the job. When Jareth announced his intention to break his engagement to Helena and marry Chloe, the girls’ governess, Althea had gone after the couple for revenge and to kill Jareth so that his cousin and heir, Gerald, would make Helena his duchess.
Helena, perhaps knowing by some intuition what her mother planned, had followed her that day, to find her mother had shot the duke and was pointing the second pistol at Chloe. Taking the spent flintlock, Helena had loaded it under her mother’s direction, for Althea’s first shot had only wounded Jareth. But only one more shot was fired that day. It was Helena’s flintlock. She killed her mother to save the life of Jareth and Chloe.
The story Jareth concocted of himself shooting Althea in self-defense was told to deflect the stain of matricide from Helena. The constable had been doubtful, but the inquest proceedings had settled the matter finally.
The talk, however, had begun when Helena, out of her mind for a while after the experience, had spoken to the first few people to arrive, admitting her guilt. From there, the rumors could never be completely subdued, fed over the years by Helena’s self-imposed isolation. It was easy to guess it was from shame that she, from that day forward, shrank from the world.
The Sleeping Beauty Page 19