“Oh, I am so sorry,” a high-pitched female voice exclaimed.
A statuesque blonde in an elaborate gown of pearl gray satin was wringing her hands in dismay.
“I cannot conceive how I could have been so clumsy,” she apologized. “You must let me help you repair the damage I have done.”
Angel could not recall ever seeing the woman before, and she wondered who she was.
As if reading her mind, the stranger said, “I am Lady Kingsley’s sister, Irene. Here, come with me.”
She took Angel’s arm and led her to a handsomely furnished bedroom at the back of the house.
Once there, she closed the door and told Angel, “Quickly, let me help you out of your torn gown, and I will have Jane, my sister’s maid, repair it for you. She is an excellent sempstress, and she will have it as good as new in ten or fifteen minutes.”
The wit-dulling lethargy that had gripped Angel was even more pronounced now, and she was glad to let Lady Kingsley’s sister deal with the torn gown. Obediently, she allowed Irene to remove her overdress and then the under- gown.
“Oh dear, I am afraid that I have torn the ruffle on your underpetticoat, too.”
As Irene spoke, she hurriedly unfastened the tapes holding that garment and let it fall about Angel’s feet, leaving her clad only in her thin lawn shift. “I shall have Jane mend that, too, so that it will not hang down below your skirt. She is so quick with the needle that it will only take her a minute.”
As Angel stepped out of the underpetticoat, she hid a yawn behind her hand, and Irene said, “Poor child, you look exhausted.”
Before Angel could stop the kindly woman, she pulled back the covers of the bed and said, “Here, lie down and take a wee nap while your gown is being repaired. It will do you good.”
The bed looked so enticing to Angel that she could not resist doing as Lady Kingsley’s sister suggested.
“I will be gone only a few minutes,” Irene said as she left the room carrying Angel’s torn garments, and leaving her with only the shift that she was wearing.
Angel’s head seemed too heavy to hold up any longer. She sank back upon the pillow and dozed off.
She came awake to a man’s voice assuring her in a low, seductive tone, “My darling Angel, you have made me the happiest man on earth.”
It was not her husband’s voice.
Alarmed, Angel opened her eyes to the sight of Roger Peck. He had already shed his turquoise brocade coat, white satin waistcoat, and lace cravat and was now divesting himself of his white lawn shirt, revealing his bare chest beneath.
“Dear God,” she cried in shock, “what are you doing here?”
His brow knit in puzzlement, “Obeying your command, my beautiful Angel. Did you think I would not come after your note to me?”
“What note?” she demanded. Shock and fear proved a powerful antidote to the strange lethargy and cobwebs that clouded her mind. She sat bolt upright in bed.
The situation was too similar to the one with Lucian at Fernhill to believe it could be a coincidence. Angel had been too naive then to realize what was happening, but now she knew how Lucian must have felt when he had awakened and known instantly what had been done to him
Angel should have guessed the Crowes would not accept the loss of Belle Haven and the rest of her inheritance without seeking revenge.
“What note?” she demanded again, but Peck did not answer her. His gaze was fixed hungrily on her breasts. Looking down, she saw that the thin, nearly transparent lawn of her shift was moulded to them. Blushing with embarrassment, Angel hastily pulled the sheet up about her.
Certain that she had again fallen into a cruel trap, Angel cried in despair, “I sent you no note!”
He gave her an indulgent smile. “So you are losing your courage, are you? It is only to be expected, but never fear, my love, I shall give you such bliss that you will never forget this night.”
“No!” Angel cried, frantic now. She was certain that Lucian would burst through the door at any moment. “Can you not see? This is a trap. Quick, put on your clothes and get out of here before my husband finds us.”
She might as well have been speaking to a deaf man for all the heed Roger paid her warning.
“I do not fear Vayle.” He settled on the bed beside her, he said soothingly, “Pray do not be frightened, darling Angel.” He seized her in his arms and began showering kisses on her face. “I shall make you the happiest woman alive.”
As if he could after Lucian, she thought scornfully, furious at his unwarranted presumption.
Angel jerked her face about trying to avoid Roger’s mouth. Forgetting the sheet she had been holding about her, she struggled with all her strength against his embrace, but he was too strong for her to escape him.
She cried in outrage and desperation. “Let go of me, you fool! Can you not see I do not want you!”
The door flew open with such force it bounced against wall and Lucian stormed into the room.
When he saw his wife and Roger on the bed, his expression turned murderous. He shouted, “You bastard, release my wife!”
At the sight of Lucian’s face, Peck did so with celerity, jumping away from her as though he had suddenly discovered she was a venomous snake. His earlier assurance to Angel that he did not fear her husband was obviously untrue.
Lucian’s furious gaze swept across Roger’s shirtless torso, then suddenly froze as it reached Angel.
Looking down, she saw to her horror that during her struggle with Roger the left side of her shift had been pulled down, exposing a rosy-tipped breast.
She would never forget as long as she lived the terrible, searing look that her husband gave her. It was fury and loss and betrayal; it was dying trust and dawning hatred.
“You seem to have misplaced your clothes, madam.” His voice was as frigid as the Arctic.
“Lady Kingsley’s sister took them. She . .
“You damned liar,” Lucian exploded. “Lady Kingsley has no sister!”
He spun around toward the door.
“No, Lucian, it is not what you think,” Angel cried. She scrambled from the bed and grabbed at his arm, but he shook her off as though she were a reprehensible insect clinging to him.
“Don’t touch me again, madam, or I swear I will not be responsible for the consequences.”
“Lucian, you must listen to me. It was another trap. I am certain the Crowes are behind it.”
He gave her a look of such contemptuous disbelief that the blood seemed to freeze in her veins.
Then he turned to Peck.
“Do you mean to call me out?” Peck stammered.
“Why? To defend the honour of a slut who has none?” he snarled. “You are welcome to her!”
He stormed from the room. Angel would have followed him had she had any clothes.
But she did not. She snatched up the velvet cover from the bed and wrapped it around her, She thought wildly of trying to follow Lucian draped in it, but instantly realized she would only make the situation—and the certain scandal— even worse.
If that were possible.
In helpless frustration, she wheeled on Peck, who was still sitting dazed on the bed. “How could you do this to me?”
“But you invited me to come to you,” Peck stammered, He grabbed for his discarded coat and pulled a note from its pocket. “You sent me this.”
Angel looked at the neat, carefully formed handwriting of the note signed with her name and protested, “This is nothing like my handwriting! I told you it was a trap, but you would not listen.”
An ashen Peck began scrambling into his clothes. Lord Wrexham strode through the door that Lucian had left open. His eyes widened in shock as he saw Angel wrapped in the velvet coverlet and Peck pulling on his shirt. “What the blazes?” he exclaimed.
Then his eyes narrowed in disillusionment and disgust, and he began backing out of the room.
“Please, Lord Wrexham, do not leave,” Angel begged, her voice cracking
. “I swear to you this is not what it looks like.”
Her father-in-law hesitated, clearly sceptical of her claim.
“Please, you must believe me,” Angel pleaded.
For an instant, she had the feeling that he was seeing another scene from the past. Then, after a long moment, he reached for the door and, stepping back into the room, closed it carefully behind him. “Tell me what happened.”
Angel related the incident with Lady Kingsley’s sister— “except,” she noted, “Lucian says Lady Kingsley does not have a sister.”
“Nay, she does not,” Wrexham confirmed. “Was this fraudulent sister the tall blond woman I saw leading you to this room.”
“Aye! You saw her?”
He nodded. “I wondered at the time who she could be. I thought I recognized everyone in society but I have never seen her before. Later, when I saw my son rush out of this room and out of the house looking as though he had just been tortured with rack and thumbscrews, I thought I ought to investigate.”
“How could Lucian think that I would betray him with Roger when I swore to him I would always be faithful to him?”
Her father-in-law looked pointedly at her wrapped in the coverlet, then at Roger, who was tying his cravat with shaking hands. “I fear that under the circumstances, it would be a quite easy and very rational assumption.”
He was right, and Angel had to admit it. Her head drooped, and she fought back tears.
Wrexham asked Roger, “How did you come to be in this room?”
Angel handed the viscount the note as Roger explained, “I received that note from Angel, but she says it is not her handwriting.”
Her father-in-law examined the note. “Did a blond woman deliver it to you?”
“Nay, it was a footman.”
“Could you pick him out again?” Wrexham asked.
Roger nodded. “Aye, he had a nasty scar on his chin.”
Angel gasped. “Was he short and stocky?”
“Aye, not at all the sort of fellow you would expect the Kingsleys to hire as a footman,” Roger said with distaste. “Did you notice him too?”
“He offered me a glass of punch, and after I drank it, I felt very strange—groggy and lethargic.” It had left the same strange aftertaste in her mouth that Maude’s elixir had, but this time Angel must have been given only enough to daze her.
“We must find the footman,” Roger exclaimed, heading for the door.
“I suspect you are wasting your time,” Wrexham warned, “but I will come with you. I want to get Angel’s cloak for her. We must all act discreetly in the hope of averting a scandal.”
It was ten minutes before Lord Wrexham returned, carrying Angel’s midnight blue velvet cloak. Concealed beneath it were the clothes that the impostor had taken from Angel.
He handed them to her. “Unfortunately, your clothes were all we found. The footman and the blond woman have vanished. They no doubt left through the servants’ entrance, which is where your clothes were discarded. I have asked Lady Brompton to come to you. You will leave with her, and she will take you to my house. You will stay with me tonight.”
“But I must go home. I must make Lucian understand . .
“You will not succeed in doing that tonight. I have never seen such a look on a man’s face as I saw on my son’s when he came out of this room. He is a man ready to commit mayhem, if not murder. Lucian will not be reasoned with tonight. I know, for he has inherited my temper. You must let it cool first.”
“I am certain that the Crowes are behind this trick. It is so very like what they did to Lucian and me at Fernhill.” A small flame of hope flared with Angel. “Surely Lucian will be able to see that.”
“I would not count on it,” Wrexham said sadly. “You must admit it is a highly improbable story you tell, especially since Peck was nearly naked, too.”
Angel turned as white as the linen on the bed. “Do you not believe me either, my lord?”
“I do, but I fear Lucian will not.”
Despite her father-in-law’s warning, Angel insisted that Selina take her home. When they reached it, Selina said anxiously, “Perhaps it would be better if I came in with you.”
“No.” Although Angel was more than a little nervous about facing her husband’s rage, she would not shrink from it. If she were to have any hope of recovering his trust—and the bliss they had shared the past week—she had to make him understand and accept the truth.
It would not be easy, though.
“I will at least accompany you to the door,” Selina said, getting out of the coach after her.
As they reached the door, it opened a scant six inches, then stopped. Reeves faced her through the small opening. The usually emotionless butler looked as though he wanted to burst into tears.
“I am sorry, my lady, but Lord Vayle has ordered that the door be barred to you from now on. I am forbidden to allow you to enter.” His voice caught. “Lord Vayle said to send a note to what address you wish your clothes sent.”
Angel reeled back as though the butler had physically struck her. She had known Lucian would be in a fury at her, but it had never occurred to her that he would refuse even to see her.
He was rejecting her even more cruelly than his father had rejected him all those years ago.
“Do not whatever you do, little love, betray my trust in you. I do not think I could bear it if you did.”
“I am very, very sorry, my lady.” Reeves paused, then added in a whisper. “If you will permit me to say so, perhaps it is for the best that you do not come in tonight. I am not certain that you would be safe. I have never seen his lordship in such a temper.”
Selina tugged at her arm. “Come, Angel, Reeves is right.”
Angel, feeling as though her heart had been ground into dust, let Selina lead her away.
How would Angel ever be able to convince her husband of the truth if he would not even see her?
Chapter 30
Lucian awoke with a muddled, throbbing head and automatically reached for Angel but she was not in the bed beside him.
Then his aching head remembered why she was not there.
And why she would never be there again.
How could he have been such a damned fool as to trust anyone with his heart again. Would he never learn?
He despised his treacherous, unfaithful wife.
He ached for her.
It had been three nights since he had discovered her and her lover, three nights since he had barred his door to her.
She had come home that first night. He had not thought that she would have the effrontery to do so, but he had taken the precaution of prohibiting her from entering his house. After she had been turned away, she had not come back again.
He had half expected her to return the next day with more honeyed lies about how that scene at the Kingsleys had not been what he thought.
As if it could have been anything else. His fury rose at the memory of Peck, half-naked, and Angel, her shift about her thighs and her breast bare, on that bed.
The lying, cuckolding witch!
He never wanted to see her again!
Where the hell was she now?
With her lover, of course, Lucian told himself furiously.
But why had she not sent for her clothes to be delivered there?
Because for what they were doing together, she needed no clothes.
The thought made him murderous.
He would kill them both.
He would not give Angel the satisfaction of knowing that he cared in the slightest.
Lucian opened his eyes. From the brightness of the light seeping through the curtains, he knew that it must be late in the morning.
He touched his throbbing temples gingerly. His head felt as though one of Dutch William’s regiments was marching through it.
At first, Lucian had been consumed by rage and an overwhelming sense of betrayal, but by last night the loneliness of his house and his life without Angel had begun to set i
n.
Knowing that he could not sleep, he had sat up until dawn, drinking himself into a stupor, before he had finally stumbled to bed.
Lucian went to the washstand, poured cold water from the pitcher, and splashed it on his face. As he dried it, he glanced into the looking glass above the stand, and grimaced at the sorry reflection he saw there.
His jet hair was tangled and unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot, and a thick black stubble of whiskers darkened his face. He truly looked like his nickname this morning.
The door to his bedroom opened, and for an instant an irrational hope flared within him. Only Angel would dare enter his room without knocking first.
He turned eagerly. It was not his wife, however, but his father, carrying a large mug.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Lucian asked irritably. He ought to throw the interloper out, but his head ached too badly to attempt any exertion. He settled for glaring at him.
“You look like hell, Lucian.” Wrexham thrust the mug at his son. “Here, drink this. It will make you feel better.”
“I doubt it,” Lucian said, looking dubiously at the brown liquid in the mug.
“Take my word for it, it will,” his father said cheerfully. “Been there myself, my boy. Now, drink it down.”
Lucian did and discovered the liquid did not taste quite as bad as it looked. He closed his eyes wearily and was suddenly ambushed by a long-suppressed memory of a day when he had been eight years old. He had sneaked out and tried to ride a half-wild stallion that had thrown him hard, knocking him unconscious.
When he had come to, his father had been kneeling over him, carefully examining him for broken bones. It had taken a moment for Lucian’s eyes to focus. When they had, his breath had caught at the relief and love on his father’s face as he saw that his son had regained consciousness.
His father had picked him up gently and carried him into the house and up to his room, where he had sat beside him holding his hand. For the rest of the day, he had basked in his father’s concern and full attention. Even though he had felt as though he had been pounded all over with a sledgehammer, it had been one of the happiest days of his childhood.
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