The Black Angel (The St Ives)

by Barbara Samuel

  Adriana bit back her sharp reply:

  How would you know? But of course it was mean-spirited, and no one could be so evil to Phoebe.

  Cassandra leaned close to take Adriana's hands. "Listen to her. Malvern was relentless in his pursuit. A far more sophisticated girl than you would have been swayed."

  A familiar ache, half regret, half humiliation, rose in her throat. "Please… I cannot bear to speak of it. Even now."

  Cassandra slid from the sofa to kneel before her sister, tightening her hands around Adriana's. "I despise that you feel you must sacrifice yourself this way, that you feel you must atone for your sins by marrying some rake you've never seen."

  "You are too dramatic, Cassandra." Adriana pulled her hands free. "There is no sacrifice here. Papa arranged the matter before he died—he must have had some reason to do so." She smoothed a wisp of hair from her face. "I am simply being practical. Besides, as you said, if he's the rake they all say, he'll be little inconvenience."

  A sound of shouts reached them, and all three turned toward the window. For a moment they froze together. "I expect that is the groom's party," Adriana said, and stood, smoothing her skirts and lifting one hand to her tightly coiled hair. "Shall we greet him?"

  Cassandra gripped her hand. "Are you absolutely certain, Adriana?"

  Adriana lifted her chin. "Yes."

  * * *

  Tynan Spenser, Earl of Glencove, Baron of Tynagh, had carefully orchestrated his arrival at Hartwood Hall. He rode a black gelding, fifteen hands of glorious Irish horseflesh, aristocratic and graceful enough to have pleased one of the ancient kings. The saddle was made of Spanish leather, and worked with silver, and in a moment of fancy he'd braided the beast's mane in the old way, with ribbons of scarlet.

  He'd considered gathering a small party of young lords for this event, but had discovered he could not bear the company of them on the long ride. As a result he rode in alone, with only his man Seamus for company. They'd spoken little, for Seamus disapproved of the match. Disapproved of anything English, come to that. Some might consider three days of sulky silence an impertinence, but Seamus had been Tynan's father's man before him, and one permitted a servant of forty years some leeway.

  And as no family of his own remained, Tynan wished some familiar company on so momentous a day.

  Tynan himself was splendidly attired in close-fitting breeches and tailored coat and tall boots, mud-spattered a little now, but none the worse for all that. He'd allowed one clue to his true nature, donning a black cloak embroidered around the edges by the women in his village with a bright Celtic design. At his throat was an ancient brooch, in his family for longer than anyone could remember, woven of red and white gold, set with a ruby the color of the fuchsias that grew along the road to Glencove castle.

  Even Seamus had grunted a miserly approval.

  A twist of anticipation rose in Tynan as they rode between the neatly clipped boxwoods lining the drive, past acres of wide lawns dotted with tiny white daisies, surrounding the house like a carpet. Here it was—Hartwood Hall. An English earldom if his wild gamble paid off; and the lost earl, Julian St. Ives, did not return. Tynan suspected his chances were better than even. There had been not a word of St. Ives in five years. Likely, he lay at the bottom of the sea, victim of some ill-built packet.

  But even if his gamble did not gain him the title, Tynan knew he'd gain political power through his highborn wife. Scandals could be overcome. One way or the other, he planned to win this hand.

  Against the gloomy sky, the hall rose in ancient grandeur. 'Twas more of a castle than the manor he'd expected. He'd known it was old, in the family for centuries, since it had been awarded to the first Earl of Albury in 1342. The main hall, a square four stories, was the only remnant of that time, though Tynan thought he could make out the uneven swell of ground that once marked the curtain wall. He sought—and found—the dry moat, now filled with earth and flowers.

  The rest of the rambling structure had been added over the centuries, a little here and there, a wing, a room, a tower, all shaped by native red stone that brought unity and a certain dignity to the hodgepodge of styles.

  Gathered on the wide steps leading to the main entrance stood a group he assumed must be the sisters and their servants. Undoubtedly one of them was Lady Adriana. Faced now with the finality of the act he was about to commit, Tynan suddenly hoped she would not be too plain. With curiosity, he studied the faces of the five ladies, flanked by servants in green livery, who awaited him on the wide sweep of steps leading to a pair of carved wooden doors.

  The first girl was a beauty, blond and sweet—very young. She linked arms with another girl with long dark eyes, mulatto by the look of her, but as finely dressed as the first. Just behind them stood a woman as plain as a country mouse, her pale brown hair swept up from a strong, kind face. She resembled her father, Tynan thought with some fondness. The Earl had been a good, kindhearted man of no particular attractiveness but that in his clear blue eyes.

  Next to the plain girl stood a tall, straight woman whose ill-fitting black bombazine obscured the shape of her body and leeched all color from her face. Her hair appeared to be blond, but he thought it must be a poor texture, for it had been pulled back tightly and braided in a coronet.

  The last one stood on the top steps, her arms crossed, her face hard. Even her legs were slightly askance, as if to give her firmer grip on the world, and he noticed with some amusement that she wore boots, not slippers. Her hair was a particularly glorious shade of red-gold, and though he could see an attempt had been made to tame it, wisps slipped free to drift around her face. He pursed his lips, measuring. This one might own that brisk voice he'd read in her letters, and yes—he could see her falling to passion too young.

  His spirits lifted and he dismounted with a spring in his step. "Good morning, ladies," he said, and bowed.

  The young girls giggled, and Tynan favored them with a broad grin, as rakish as he could summon. It pleased him when they blushed happily. "You must be Ophelia and Cleopatra."

  They curtsied prettily, and nudged each other over the hothouse flowers he bestowed upon them from the armload Seamus carried behind him. He looked to the next sister.

  "You do favor your father, lass," he said, offering a handful of some yellow blossom he couldn't name. Up close, he saw that her skin was fine, and her eyes were of a singularly piercing blue. "A good man he was."

  Her gaze was clear and direct, and in it he saw that he had found her softness immediately. "He was, sir."

  That left the final two, who awaited at the top of the steps. Yes, the one in black must be the widow—Cassandra. Poor girl was paler than the moon, and she kept her eyes carefully downcast. From the bouquet, he selected a perfect white rose, and one of deepest red.

  Only then did he allow himself to raise his eyes to the glorious redhead, and was startled to see active dislike on her face. He cocked a brow ironically and gave her the red rose. "My lady," he said with a slight bow.

  "I am Cassandra, sir." She gestured with a slim white hand. "This is my sister, your bride-to-be, Lady Adriana St. Ives."

  Tynan had learned to control his expression in a thousand circumstances, and had polished his gift for flirtation to an art, but for a single instant he stumbled. His gaze flew to the pallid blond, and sought some single beauty he could admire, flatter her about.

  But he could find nothing. The features were even enough, he supposed, with no glaring flaw he could pinpoint aside from the paleness. Pale lips, pale hair, pale cheeks. Her figure looked plump in the ill-fitting stiff gown.

  And in that heartbeat's length of time that passed before he could hide his dismay, she raised her eyes and saw his true feelings. Her nostrils flared and her chin tilted faintly, and he read in the expression the haughtiest disdain.

  A bad show, that lapse of his expression. In an instant he gathered himself and smoothly took her cold hand in his own. With all of his charm—and there were many who said it wa
s considerable—he pressed a warm kiss to it. "At last we meet, my lady," he said in a voice meant to roll down her spine.

  She raised one sharp, arched brow—darker by far than her pale hair—and he saw he'd moved her not at all.

  Taking her hand back, she said only, "My lord," in a voice as distant as her cool nod.

  The lady of the manor, soiled by Irish riffraff. The message could not have been more clear. Tynan smiled, coldly, and offered his arm. "Shall we?"

  Chapter 2

  Adriana's hands shook as she took the Earl's arm and allowed herself to be led into the house. There was a hot roaring in her ears as they walked down the old stone passageway, a noise that blocked out the rest of the party, which she knew must be gaily tracking in behind them. She could not hear them.

  There was only room for the sense of the Black Angel beside her, towering over her, both taller and broader than she'd first thought. Not stout, but hale—wide in the shoulder, deep in the chest—arms and legs hard with the strength of a vigorous sportsman. Adriana had been tall her entire life, and disliked this sudden sense of small powerlessness he gave her.

  Against the wool of his coat, her fingers grew damp, and beneath his sleeve she felt the ungiving muscle of a man who did not take his horses lightly. His boots clicked authoritatively against the stones, while hers only whispered. When they arrived at the doors to the chapel, one of her favorite places in the house, Adriana discovered that not even the ancient hush and stained glass could give her peace this day.

  Throughout the short ceremony, she held herself rigid, eyes fixed upon the sloped shoulders of the village parson who'd been summoned for this task. Her groom seemed not to notice the trembling of her fingers, only stood next to her, straight and strong, smelling of damp wool and coriander and something evocative and musky she could not name. From the corner of her eye she kept catching on the vivid embroidery on the edge of his cloak, an extravagance that somehow frightened her.

  The service went quickly, and abruptly it was time to solemnize their agreement with the kiss of peace. Adriana was forced to turn toward him and raise her eyes and look again in that face.

  That face.

  Lush, untamed black hair framed it, hair that misbehaved in the damp, and tumbled heathenlike down his back. The face itself was made of lean angles and winged brows and a mouth created from the fantasies of maidens. She remembered an old story, told by her Irish nanny in Martinique, about the beauty of Irish kings. This face, unholy in its beauty, would have ruled all.

  But it was his eyes that were most dangerous. Eyes of clearest aquamarine, not quite blue, not quite green, gazed down at her, eyes whose faintly mocking expression revealed both his intelligence and the easy seductive flirtation of a rake. But just as she had in that brutal moment outside on the stairs, Adriana saw again the darkness that lurked in the depths of that impossible color. To her despair, she found it made him all the more attractive.

  Oh, God, did he have to be so beautiful?

  He lowered his head, and against all her will, Adriana's gaze fell to his mouth. Kisses. From the first, kissing had ever been her downfall. As a young girl, she'd restlessly imagined kissing the beautiful stable boy, had found a way to do it, and it was even more delicious than her fevered imagination had anticipated. Malvern had seduced her with his sweet, sweet kisses.

  And neither of them had had a mouth like this one. It made no pretense to sweetness or innocence. It was a wide, mobile mouth, but the worst of it was that the upper lip, crisply cut, arched ever so slightly over the seductive lower in an arrangement she found desperately erotic.

  As if he noticed her fixation, one side of that mouth quirked, very slightly, and he bent his head to kiss her. She clenched her teeth hard against it, and the mouth that met his was hard and unyielding. It was mercifully brief, but even the brush of that mouth over her own was promising. He would, she knew in an instant, kiss as if kissing could change the world.

  "Such a warm welcome from my bride," he murmured, cocking one brow.

  She cocked one of her own and lifted her shoulder the slightest bit in imitation of the ennui she'd seen in the women at Cassandra's salons. "One cannot expect passion from a stranger."

  His face shuttered. "Especially for an Irishman." His voice was so low, none but she could hear it.

  She frowned. "I do not understand your meaning, sir."

  "Then you are far more naive than your past would lead me to believe."

  Stung, she raised her chin. "Do not ever speak of that again," she replied.

  A pause, so brief it could barely be discerned. Then he gave her a curt nod. "So be it."

  * * *

  Tynan circled the party warily, taking the measure of this new group. In the wide, windowed ballroom a string quartet played minuets, and when the guests were not eating the feast laid out on tables around the edges of the room, they danced and flirted and laughed. With some amusement, he noted that the two youngest girls, Ophelia and Cleopatra, dazzled the young men who'd come from the surrounding country to celebrate the wedding. Soon, he thought with proprietary ease, the girls would need husbands of their own.

  The plain Phoebe circulated, pausing now and again, gesturing for new wine here, a stool for a gouty baron's foot there. A gentle hand on a shoulder, a beatific smile at an old man's joke, snagging a child to retie a ribbon that had come undone. In Phoebe lived the heart of the family.

  The redheaded sister had left soon after the ceremony in order to arrive in London before dark. Tynan thought it just as well. Someone told him she held salons in her town house, a center of the artistic and creative communities. He'd do well to avoid that set, and Cassandra herself. The fire was too tempting.

  Sitting stiffly to one side was Adriana, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her face unyielding. She had not eaten that he'd seen, nor taken a sip of wine. When their eyes caught, her gaze sidled away in a rush, as if she were frightened.

  Tynan pursed his lips, measuring her from his post across the room. Of all the sisters, she seemed the least likely to have fallen prey to the talents of a rake, but 'twas fact that she had, and that her brothers had killed the man in a duel.

  Which had led to him standing here now. Though dueling was strictly outlawed, it was not a crime ordinarily punished by juries—especially a nobleman avenging a sister's honor.

  But the murdered man in this case was a bastard born to a mistress of the King's brother, and that mother cried out loud and long for justice for her fallen son. Should Julian St. Ives, twelfth Earl of Albury, and his half brother Gabriel, ever set foot on English soil again, they would be arrested.

  Tynan saw Phoebe pause by her sister and put a hand on her shoulder. Lady Adriana nodded at something she said, and accepted a cup of brandy pressed into her hand.

  Again, he tried to see some hint of passion or the promise of sensuality—anything—that might have sent a powerful youth into wild pursuit of this woman when all the beauties of London had been available to him. He could see nothing. Nor could he discern any hint of the recklessness that might have led a well-bred young lady to give in to such machinations. He saw only the straightness of her spine, the stiffness of her neck, the unsmiling rigidness of that unyielding mouth.

  Still, there had to be something. And whether or not he discovered it, he had promised her father to be a husband to her, and though the old man asked no more than he would have from any businessman, Tynan had been very fond of James St. Ives. In his honor, he would at least try to create more than a mockery of a marriage.

  Tugging on his coat, he lifted his glass and carried it over to her table, aggressively straddling a chair beside her. Tossing hair from his eyes, he said, "Good evening, wife."

  A pulse beat in her throat. "Good evening."

  He lifted his glass and took a swallow of fine port, then gestured with it toward Cleo, dancing with splendid form. "Tell me about your family," he invited, knowing it was a rare woman who could resist talk of her siblings. More t
han one maid or matron had been wooed to his bed by just such a gambit.

  "Do you mean my family, sir, or specifically Cleo?"

  He inclined his head in acknowledgment of a point scored. "Touché. Cleo, of course. The rest is clear enough."

  "She's beautiful, isn't she?" Lady Adriana said quietly.

  Cleo wore a turquoise silk gown, a color that glorified her flawless golden skin and black hair, which had been swept into a tumble of curls that teased at the joining of neck and shoulder, a breathlessly graceful spot. "Indeed," Tynan agreed.

  "I worry about her," Adriana confessed, and he found in her voice a quality that was appealing. A richness that would lend itself well to singing. "She has not yet come to understand that—" She broke off, sighed. "She and Ophelia have shared a perfect childhood. Ophelia will go on to marry a duke, or at the least, an earl, while Cleo will have to content herself with a tradesman or even less. A man who will have no sense of the finer things Cleo loves."

  "Did your father not consider that?" He sipped his wine again. "I assume she is his daughter."

  "Yes, she is." A faint smile touched her lips. "My father adored her, as he loved all his children, and he wanted her to have what he could give. He did the same for Gabriel."

  "Gabriel." Tynan frowned. "Your brother?"

  "Half. He's the oldest of us all, born also to Cleo's mother."

  "Ah." He nodded. "But 'tis an easier world for a man than for a woman," he said. "No matter the race of the man."

  She glanced at him, and he spied the sharp intelligence in her eyes. "It is rare enough that a man knows it."

  He shrugged, uncomfortable suddenly under that sharp gaze. "Did your mother not object to your father's mistress?"

  "He had no mistress while she lived, sir." She swiveled her proud head. "My father served in the wars and was given a plantation for his efforts. As a second son, he had few prospects in England, so he settled in Martinique, to make what he could of his life. There he met Cleo's mother and they had a child, who was Gabriel." She looked at Tynan down her aristocratic nose. "He granted both mother and child their freedom, and gave Gabriel all that he desired. He loved them, sir, because he was not blinded by the world's values."