“I overheard him tell Reeves that he was going to call on Lady Selina Brompton.” The woman cast her a pitying, sidelong glance. “I do not expect him back soon.”
All Angel’s excitement and eagerness to see Lucian again drained away. Her most painful fear had been realized. Instead of being here to greet her he was with his mistress, where he had undoubtedly spent the past three nights.
Angel had never felt so alone in her life, not even after Papa had died, for then she had at least had Belle Haven. Now she was in a strange city where she knew no one.
Mrs. McNally led her into a large bedchamber. It was a pretty, comfortable room, painted yellow, with frilly embroidered curtains on the big tester bed and the windows, but Angel knew immediately that this was not Lucian’s room. With its embroidery and frills, it was far too feminine.
Her heart sank. She had assumed that she would share his room here, just as they had shared the lord’s chamber at Ardmore. “Where is my husband’s bedchamber?” Angel asked, trying to hide her dismay and disappointment.
“Next door. This is my lady’s chamber,” the housekeeper said with such firmness that Angel assumed Lucian had ordered her put here.
She was devastated. Now that Lucian was in London with his mistress, he no longer wished to share a bedchamber with her. Angel felt tears prickling at her eyes, but then her pride came to her rescue. She would not let Mrs. McNally, nor Lucian himself, know how hurt she was. Angel would pretend that she was delighted with this room, preferring it to his.
Reeves greeted Lucian with the news that Angel had arrived in his absence.
“God’s oath, I have only been gone for twenty minutes,” he exclaimed. “Where is she? In my bedchamber?”
Reeves winced. “I was not here when she arrived, and Mrs. McNally installed her in the lady’s bedchamber next to yours. I had not thought to tell her differently since I expected to be here when Lady Vayle arrived.”
Lucian muttered a curse. He had given Reeves explicit orders that Angel was to be put in Lucian’s own room.
In his rush to see his wife again, he took the steps two at a time and opened the door to her room without bothering to knock. He checked himself at the sight of Angel in her lace-trimmed holland chemise.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, instinctively trying to cover herself with her arms.
“It is only me, little one,” Lucian reassured her, quickly shutting the door after him. “You need not hide from me.”
But, as he moved toward her, he saw that she was suddenly shy with him.
“I—I did not expect you back so soon,” she stammered, blushing rosily. “They said you had just left. I—I am sorry I am not dressed to greet you.”
“I am not sorry.” He grinned at her, and his voice was suddenly husky. “You can greet me like this anytime.”
He crushed her to him, and his mouth came down upon hers in a long, hard kiss. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then she returned it with equal ardour.
When at last he released her, she looked up at him and smiled shyly. “I believe you are glad to see me, my lord.”
“Aye,” he admitted. Then, unwilling to have her suspect just how glad he was, he said brusquely, “I was worried about your making the journey without me.”
Her smile drooped, and she looked away at the frilly bed curtains. A moment later, she said in an oddly strained and subdued voice, “Thank you for giving me this lovely room.”
Dismayed at the possibility she might prefer it to sharing his own chamber, he asked sharply, “Do you like it?”
“Aye, I love it. It is so bright and cheerful. Yellow is my favourite colour.”
He frowned, thinking of his own darker, masculine bed- chamber done in burgundy and furnished with heavy, ornately carved pieces. Undoubtedly it would not appeal to a woman nearly so much as this one, but he wanted her there beside him.
Tactfully he asked, “Would you choose this one—”
She interrupted him before he could say “over my bed- chamber?”
“Aye,” she said. “My room at Belle Haven was done in yellow, and this reminds me of it.”
Naturally, she would prefer a room that reminded her of her beloved home. Swallowing his hurt and disappointment, he asked gently, “Are you exhausted from your journey, little one?”
“Not at all.”
“Good,” he said. “Then we will go to bed.”
She blinked at him. “But I said I am not sleepy.”
“Did I say anything about sleeping?” He kissed her again hungrily. Then he untied the drawstring at the neck of her lace-trimmed chemise and pulled it wide. His mouth moved down to her breast, suckling it. She moaned and buried her hands in his hair. Her chemise fell about her ankles.
He lifted his head, and his eyes devoured her lovely, sinuous body. God’s oath, but he was starving for her. He could not wait to have her.
The speed with which Lucian dispatched his clothes surprised Angel. Then as he pulled her down on the bed, she read the hunger in his eyes for her. Her heart leapt, and her own body answered him in kind.
With long, powerful strokes, he propelled them to a shattering mutual climax that seemed to turn her bones to water.
He rolled on to his side, taking her with him. They lay still joined together, their shuddering breathing slowly returning to normal. His hand stroked her cheek.
Angel opened her eyes and was instantly lost in the silver depths of his jet-framed eyes. He whispered tenderly, “I am sorry, little one, but I could not wait.”
She was not in the least sorry, but rather very pleased at this evidence of how much he had wanted her. She smiled. “I am glad that you missed me so much.”
The instant she said it, Angel knew that she had made a mistake. His hands were suddenly still; the silver eyes, so warm a moment ago, were now cool and guarded.
“I told you I was worried about you,” he said stiffly. “You are my wife. You and your safety are my responsibility.”
The joy died in Angel. Could he not even admit that he had some affection for her? She said sadly, “You make me sound like a dreadful burden.”
His face relaxed. “Not dreadful,” he teased, running his hand possessively along the curve of her body. “Quite pleasant, in fact.”
He pulled her more tightly against him, and they lay in silence. It was clear to Angel that, even if he would not admit it, he had missed her, and she took comfort in that.
She was more determined than ever to find a way to breach the barriers he had erected around his heart.
“Angel,” he said suddenly, breaking the peaceful quiet, “are you certain your father never told you where he hid his will.”
“Very certain,” she said, startled by his choice of pillow talk. “If only he had!”
“But he must have. I have been reading his journal, and he made it clear in it that he would tell you where it was hidden.”
“But he did not. Why would he have failed to do so?”
“I cannot imagine a man as precise about details as the scientific earl could have failed. Perhaps you forgot.”
She was indignant he could think such a thing. “I would never have forgotten anything so important as that.”
“Perhaps you did not grasp the importance of what he was telling you.”
“Lucian, I am not a fool!” she cried, bitterly hurt.
The next morning, Lucian, eager to dress his wife as she deserved to be dressed, summoned Madame de la Roche and her minions to fit Angel with the first of the gowns he had ordered.
Her eyes glowed with delight when she saw what he had ordered for her. “They are all so beautiful!” she cried. “May I try this one first?” She pointed to a rose silk over-gown over a cream petticoat tiered with Mechlin lace.
Reeves scratched at the door. “My lord, a messenger is here from the queen. You must go to Whitehall immediately.”
Lucian bit back a curse. He had been looking forward to watching Angel’s fittings and passing judgment on e
ach gown.
Reluctantly he left his bride and went to the palace, where he was ushered into Her Majesty’s presence. Queen Mary II, who shared the throne of England jointly with her Dutch husband, was tall for a woman—five-foot-eleven— and fine-looking, with thick dark hair, large brown eyes, and milk white skin.
She held one of her Dutch pugs on her lap, and her fingers anxiously toyed with its hair. Clearly much agitated, she wasted no time in telling Lucian why he has been sent for.
“I must send a very private, very personal letter to my husband in Ireland. It is imperative that no eyes but his see it or his reply to me. You must carry it to him and bring me his answer.”
It was the last thing that Lucian wanted to do, and he could not conceal his dismay.
“But, Your Majesty, surely someone else would—”
“No,” she interrupted emphatically. “You are the only one I trust to carry the letter to him without looking at its contents.”
Lucian knew that he should be honoured that the queen trusted him so much.
He was miserable.
He would have to leave Angel alone in London, where she knew no one. He had not found a suitable woman to prepare her for her introduction to society; he had not even hired a maid for her.
Worse, he could be gone for weeks, depending on the king’s pleasure and the winds needed to carry him across the Irish Sea and back again.
He opened his mouth to protest again, but the queen, anticipating what he could say, cut him off.
“If you were in my place, whom would you trust enough to send?”
The question stopped him. The queen was surrounded by men locked in political intrigues and schemes to enhance their own power and futures. Were he in her place, he would trust no one, save himself.
When he failed to answer, she said wryly, “I see you appreciate my dilemma.”
He did, and he felt very sorry for her. Not only was she surrounded by scheming, untrustworthy men, but she was terrified for her husband’s safety in Ireland. Even more upsetting to the queen, the enemy the king was battling there was her own father. Lucian knew she prayed that both men’s lives would be spared.
Mary picked up a sealed letter from the ornate inlaid table and handed it to him. “Guard this with your life, and allow no eyes but the king’s to see it.”
“I will be worthy of your trust, Your Majesty.”
“Leave at once. One of the king’s fastest horses awaits you downstairs.”
“Please, Your Majesty, allow me to say farewell to my bride. She arrived only last evening in London, where she knows no one. I cannot leave her with no explanation.”
“Will you give me your oath that you will be on the road to Holyhead in one hour’s time?”
“You have it,” Lucian agreed, knowing that this was the best he could hope for.
As he rode home from Whitehall, he wanted to slam his fist into his saddle in frustration. He must protect Angel from society’s intense curiosity during his absence. Given the stories circulating about their marriage, the inquisitive would flock to his doorstep while he was gone, eager to inspect his new bride. He knew how cruel and unjust London society could be to those who did not measure up to its sophisticated standards. They loved nothing so much as ridiculing young innocents.
Lucian, determined to shelter Angel from their scorn, would instruct Reeves to permit no callers to see his wife.
When he reached home, Madame de la Roche was coming down the steps with her assistants. Their arms were loaded with Angel’s gowns, which they were taking back for finishing.
“My lord,” Madame said approvingly when she saw him, “you have a good eye for what will become your lady.”
He found Angel in their bedroom, donning one of Kitty’s cast-offs.
She broke into a wide smile when she saw him. “The clothes are all so lovely, Lucian.” She glanced down in disgust at the frilly, childish gown in her hands. “I confess it is difficult for me to put this on now. I am afraid Papa would be dreadfully ashamed of me.”
“Why?”
“He mocked fashion as the silly concern of idle, frivolous minds. I fear I have become very frivolous.”
Lucian laughed aloud at that. “Not at all, little one. You have merely become a woman, and every woman loves pretty clothes. You would be odd if you did not.”
Angel looked so adorable in her shift that he wanted nothing so much as to take her to bed, but he had no time.
“The queen is sending me on a mission to King William in Ireland. I must leave at once, so listen to me carefully, Angel. You must do exactly as I tell you while I am gone. First, you cannot go outside the confines of this house.”
Her face fell. “Why not?”
“You have no maid to accompany you.”
“But I do not need—”
“Angel, you will do as I say,” he interjected firmly. “In London, a lady—and I expect my wife to be no less—does not go outside her home unaccompanied by her maid. Unfortunately, I have no time to hire one for you before I leave.”
Her face puckered unhappily. “But I was so looking forward to seeing London.”
“And I was looking forward to showing it to you,” Lucian admitted. “I promise you, little one, that I will do so as soon as I return.”
“Can I not even go out walking?”
“No! If you wish to walk, you can do so in the walled garden behind the house. It is very large and extends down to the Thames.”
He bent his head and kissed Angel long and hard, then said, “I am very sorry to have to desert you, little one, but I cannot go against the queen’s command.”
He crushed Angel hard against for a final moment before he hurried from the house.
How long would it be before he would see her again?
Chapter 21
Lady Selina Brompton’s carriage clattered to a stop in front of Lucian’s house. She had no intention of departing until she had met his wife.
As her footman let down the carriage step, Selina’s nerve failed her at the thought of how angry Lucian would be at her if he learned about this visit. She hesitated for a moment but then her curiosity to see his new bride won out, and she stepped out of the carriage.
No one had been permitted to see the new Lady Vayle since her arrival in London three days earlier. Society was agog with curiosity about her after all the wild stories circulating about her and her marriage to Vayle.
Callers, pretending to be unaware that Lucian had left for Ireland, flocked to his house ostensibly to call upon him and his new bride, but in reality to look her over. They were all politely but firmly turned away by Lucian’s butler with word that her ladyship would be receiving no one until her lord returned to London.
The stories circulated about her by guests who had been at Fernhill for the ill-fated betrothal party had not piqued Selina’s interest nearly so much as Vayle’s behaviour. It was clear to Selina, although she suspected that it might not be to Lucian yet, that since his marriage his passion for his mistress had faded.
And his wife could be the only reason for that.
Although Selina was exceedingly fond of Vayle, she had never had any illusions that he loved her any more than she did him. Each, for their own reasons, had encased their hearts in a protective shield that kept love out.
She sensed that he, like she, knew the terrible pain of love cruelly rejected and that he, like she, was determined never to place his heart in such jeopardy again.
But he was a considerate and accomplished lover—the most accomplished she had had except for her very first.
Unlike that first love, who had broken her heart, Lucian had treated her as a princess in and out of bed. He was intelligent, amusing, easygoing company and, to her enormous relief, he did not subject her to tiresome displays of jealousy and possessiveness as other lovers had.
A pang of regret assailed her for what she was losing. Perhaps if she been able to… She ruthlessly cut off that train of thought. If Lucian ha
d fallen wildly in love with her, Selina was quite certain he would no longer have been such a tolerant and accommodating lover. He would have asked a good deal more of her. And that would not have suited her at all.
She smiled. What a complex man he was. He was impatient with most people and they, in turn, thought that he deserved his sobriquet, Lord Lucifer. But those rare, select few whom he honoured with his regard could ask for no truer friend.
And it was his friendship that Selina most valued. She could count on him in any difficulty, and she knew no other man of whom she could say that. Even if she lost him as a lover, which she suspected she already had, she very much wanted to keep his friendship.
So why was she risking it merely to satisfy her curiosity about his wife? Although all society was talking about what an unsuitable wife Lucian had married, in Selina’s opinion, the girl could hardly be worse than Kitty.
Selina’s mouth curled in disgust. Lucian needed a strong woman who would stand up to him. That was one of the reasons, although she knew he did not realize it, that he and she dealt so well together.
And Kitty was a simpering, spineless fool who had allowed her father to dissuade her from marrying David Inge, who would have made her an excellent husband. Lucian had never confided in Selina why he wanted to marry Kitty, but she knew it had nothing to do with either esteem or affection for her.
From all that Selina had heard about Vayle’s bride, she had even less to recommend her than Kitty.
Yet Selina sensed from the confusion she had seen in Vayle’s eyes during their brief meeting that he felt very differently about his wife than he had about Kitty.
That was particularly surprising since Lucian denied seducing the girl and indicated that he had been tricked into that infamous scene at Fernhill. Most likely the Crowes had helped the girl sneak into Lucian’s bed while he was asleep, and he had awakened to find the trap sprung. The chit, of course, had denied that she was guilty of such despicable behaviour.
What baffled Selina was how Lucian, who from the stories she had heard had at first flatly refused to marry the girl, had then been induced to go through with the wedding.
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