“I’m sorry,” Sara murmured. “Do continue.”
“Very well,” he said. Squaring his posture, he began to pace before the hearth—slow, measured steps, as if he were trying to calm himself. “Have you had a chance to examine the tapestries yet?”
“Oh, yes,” she cried, “I meant to tell you earlier. They are ‘consoling,’ just as you said. It was very thoughtful of you. Selling my dogs was no less painful than if I’d been forced to part with my childr—my next of kin,” she amended. It wouldn’t do to bring up children again. “Our preseason spring hunts were the sporting event of the parish in Yorkshire. Everyone looked forward to them. Those tapestries took me home again. I miss the animals so dreadfully.”
“I’m glad you’re pleased,” he said. “Alex is bringing several more when he returns from London. What did you think of my steward? Did he behave himself, or did you have to put him in his place? I noticed that he hadn’t convinced you to call him by his given name. Knowing Alex, that’s telling.”
“May I speak frankly?”
“I hoped that you would,” he responded.
“I did not have to put him in his place. I simply kept him in it.”
“Bravo!” he erupted, breaking his stride momentarily. “Alex wouldn’t be Alex if he didn’t try. He’s more than just my steward, Sara. We’ve been friends since we were breeched. We were at school together . . . until it was decided that I continue my studies here at Ravencliff, with a tutor. His mother died when he was born, and my mother took pity upon him before she passed. Being the second son, he was often ignored. His father’s estate was close by, and he used to spend his holidays here, exploring this old house with me. After he went off to Oxford, I didn’t see much of him for a time. He got into one scrape after another at school, and was finally sent down. His brother married, and took his bride to America, and his father died shortly thereafter. It was then that I took Alex on as my steward. He’d frittered away his inheritance until he hadn’t a feather to fly with, and taken to drowning his sorrows in flirtations and Blue Ruin. So, you see, I’m fully aware of his shortcomings. As long as they do not interfere with his situation here, I’ve been content to overlook them . . . until now, because he’s been a good friend, and a good steward, but I shan’t stand for any disrespect toward you. I want that clearly understood.”
“I didn’t much care for his forward manner, and I ignored it,” Sara said. “I believe we understand each other.”
“Good, I’m glad,” he replied, resuming his pacing. “I shall have a word with him as well. Once he knows his place, he usually stays in it. If there should be a problem, however—no matter how slight—I expect you to come to me at once. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Nicholas, but I assure you there shan’t be.”
“As to your hair, you may do with it as you please,” he continued. “But I will be very disappointed if you cut it. It is lovely, and becoming, and quite a novelty in times like these when fashion rules, and the frivolous weak-willed bow to it.”
“I hadn’t planned to cut it. I just wanted to be sure you approved.”
“Good,” he replied. “Now then, about the ground rules I spoke of last evening . . . I’ve already told you that I do not want you prowling about after dark, and you are aware of my reasons. As to your . . . obligations as Baroness Walraven, they shall be simple, and untaxing, as I outlined when you arrived. I shall have a houseguest soon, and you shall be put to the test, I’m afraid. I’m sure you won’t disappoint me. Much depends upon it. Next, in regard to our . . . intimate relationship, there shan’t be one. You are a young and . . . vital woman, Sara. I am not insensitive to that, and since I sense . . . disappointment over this aspect of our arrangement, you have my permission to take a lover—so long as you are discreet, that is, and so long as it isn’t Alex Mallory, which is why I asked your opinion of him earlier. That would be awkward, since he has no family, and resides here when he isn’t off on business for me.”
Sara’s breath caught in her throat. That was the last thing she would have expected him to say, and for once in her twenty-three years, she was speechless.
“Other issues may come up,” he said, “and we shall address them if and when they do, but these are the most important, and they are unequivocal.” He stopped prowling the hearthstone like a predator midstride, and faced her. “Do we have an understanding?”
“Y-yes, Nicholas,” she said low-voiced. She wanted to scream out: I don’t want a lover. You are my husband. I want you to want me, but her throat closed over the words, and it was all she could do to choke back her tears.
“Oh, and one more thing,” he said. “Do not get too attached to Nero. Keep your distance. I have . . . plans for him, and if they come to fruition, he may be leaving us soon, which is why it was my wish that you not even know of his existence. I wouldn’t want you to suffer any more separation angst than you already have over another animal, especially one of mine.”
“It isn’t because . . . because . . . I came to his defense?”
“No, it is not,” he said. “You needn’t go on. You didn’t fool me last night with your ‘book from the library’ tale. You’re an intelligent woman. I cannot imagine having to tell you twice where any room in this house is after you’d been shown. I knew why you came downstairs. You were . . . involved with that animal in some way. That was fairly obvious, and that’s not why I’ve brought it up. My plans for Nero were formed long before you ever came here, Sara. There’s nothing you can do to change them, and if you knew what they were, you wouldn’t want to. I don’t know what’s put it into your head that I mean to harm that animal, but I assure you I do not. I simply do not want you to form an attachment that you will later regret. This, too, I must insist upon as one of the ground rules . . . probably the most important one. And now, if you will excuse me, I really must be about house business.”
He streaked past her then, his fists still jammed in his pockets, and disappeared in the shadows of the corridor outside.
His abrupt departure was jarring, but welcome. She barely made it to her suite before the tears came. How could he offer her a lover so casually? Did he think so little of her? Why hadn’t she spoken out? Why hadn’t she at the very least let him know the suggestion was repugnant to her? His words had stalled her brain. What must he think, that she was no better than the two-thirds of society who embraced the taking of lovers and mistresses as a viable way of life? It wasn’t that he proposed such a thing that had stricken her so. It was that he seemed to think she would accept such an arrangement.
Sara flung herself across the bed and sobbed her heart dry. He was going to take Nero away. What terrible fate did he have in store for that poor animal? She wouldn’t bear it. It was already too late not to become attached. I’ll hide Nero away before I’ll let Nicholas harm him, she decided, pounding the feather-down pillow. What was happening to her? She was never a watering pot—not once during all the horrid debasement in that odious prison had she shed a single tear.
She had nearly cried herself to sleep, when Nell came to help her dress for dinner. One look in the cheval glass was enough to make her beg off. Her eyes were puffy and red, nearly swollen shut, and her fair skin was covered with blotches. It always happened when she cried, which was one of the reasons she so seldom indulged. She certainly couldn’t go downstairs looking like that. She didn’t bother to send her regrets. Nicholas probably wouldn’t be dining anyway, if his past behavior were any example. She wasn’t hungry, but she opted for a tray in her suite anyway. Were she to refuse and call attention to her distress, it might prompt a visit from Nicholas, and she’d had quite enough of him for one day.
When the food arrived, she managed to eat most of it. Afterward, she had Nell prepare her for bed, and dismissed her for the evening; the mousy little abigail had set her sights on one of the hall boys, and was only too willing to oblige. It was too early to sleep. Sara couldn’t even if she’d wanted to—not with so many troubled thoughts rattling
around in her brain. But she could climb between the sheets and try to order those thoughts.
Despite Nicholas’s insistence, she would not discourage Nero. Who knew but that she was the only friend he had at Ravencliff. She’d saved some of her dinner, tucked it away in her serviette, just in case, and she cracked the door—not enough to be noticed, just enough for his paw or snout to brush against and gain him entrance. She’d scarcely climbed into bed, when the knock came, but it wasn’t the animal’s familiar scratching that sat her bolt upright in the bed, and it wasn’t Nero who crossed the threshold. It was Nicholas.
A cry on her lips, Sara leaped from the bed, turned her back, and shrugged on her wrapper before she faced him. Meanwhile, he stood arms akimbo, a striking figure in his black pantaloons and Hessians, black cutaway tailcoat of superfine, and burgundy brocade waistcoat. An expertly tied neck cloth over modest shirt points challenged the jet-black hair curling about his earlobes. It offset the cleft in his uptilted chin.
“Are you in the habit of crashing into ladies’ bedchambers unannounced?” she snapped, feeling ridiculous for having said it, since it was his house, and they were technically husband and wife.
“I did knock, and the door was open, Sara,” he responded. “Perhaps Nell—”
“No,” she interrupted. She would not have the blame fall to Nell for something the girl had no part in. “I came in rather . . . quickly earlier. I thought I’d pulled it to. Evidently not, but that doesn’t matter. It was hardly flung wide, and as you can see, I am not dressed for entertaining. I was about to retire.”
“Hmmm,” he growled, his eyebrow arched. The hooded obsidian eyes beneath, flashing red in the firelight, were raking her familiarly, and her heart began to pound. “Why didn’t you come down to dinner, are you unwell?”
“Unwell?” she snapped. “No, Nicholas, I am not ‘unwell,’ I am unhappy!”
“You’ve been crying,” he observed. “Those blotches there . . . do they often occur when you cry? Mrs. Bromley is a skilled herbalist. I shall have her concoct a remedy.”
“Don’t worry,” Sara snapped. “I shan’t spoil my appearance and embarrass you before your guests. I do not cry often, only when I’m angry.”
“I’ve been too blunt,” he said, his posture deflated.
“Blunt?” she shrilled. “My dear man, ‘blunt’ is not the half of it. If you hadn’t been such a coward and stormed off earlier, before I’d had half a chance to recover from your insensitive . . . insulting—my God, there is no word to describe your benighted ground rules—I’d have told you just exactly what I think of you and them!”
“Sara—”
“No!” she cried. “No, Nicholas. How could you stand there and tell me to take a lover? Is that what you think you’ve bought in me—someone who will jump into another man’s bed at the snap of your fingers . . . an ornament to host your gatherings and afterward foist off on someone else to take her pleasures? There are names for women like that, and you do not have to marry them. I am not one. How dare you!”
“I have not ‘bought’ you,” he murmured.
“Oh? You’ve heard nothing past that, have you? And just what would you call it, then?”
“Certainly not ‘bought,’ not in the way you put it,” he defended. “Redeemed, is how I see it . . . how I wanted you to see it. And I didn’t mean to disrespect you,” he went on, searching the ceiling for composure. Were those tears misting those magnificent eyes? Remorse certainly hadn’t put them there. He was cold and unfeeling, this strange man she’d married. Nonetheless, his thick, dark lashes were wet from blinking them back when he met her gaze again. “I was merely trying to offer you an alternative solution to a . . . sensitive situation that cannot be helped,” he said. “I am sorry if I have offended you, but do not damn me for it. I shan’t retract my suggestion, and you shouldn’t reject it out of hand. Do not be too quick to decline. Marriage is forever. As time goes by, you may be glad you’ve left that door open, Sara.”
He sketched a bow and then left her, striding out without a backward glance. His scent was all around her, spread by the heat of the hearth, and by the drafts that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere. She heard the door latch click in the foyer. After a moment, she rushed there and opened it again, leaving it just as she had before. Nicholas wouldn’t be returning, but Nero might, and she climbed back into bed to wait.
Five
Nicholas Walraven prowled the edge of the cliff in the darkness. The sighing wind had risen again, teasing his multi-caped greatcoat: lifting the hem of it, playing with the collars, like the fingers of a curious child. It was still moon dark, and but for an occasional glimpse of whitecaps riding the breast of the water below, the night was black as ink. He needed no moon or stars to light his travels there. He knew every rock, every derelict weed and blade of grass bent low between them in the storm, by heart. This was the only place he felt safe, the only constant in his life that never disappointed, this precipice that welcomed him. He haunted it often—fair weather and foul, he went to it for comfort, like a child to its mother’s breast, like a lover to his mistress—but it couldn’t stop the nightmare. Nothing could.
His valet would be preparing his bath now—a cold bath. Again. It wouldn’t chase the madness, for that is what it was. Sara had named it, by God! A madness in the blood, and he cursed his father for it. He must have been mad to think this marriage of convenience would work, to think he could live like other men lived, have what other men had. It was a mistake, and if he were to pace the seawall until kingdom come, it wouldn’t be put right. He would have to do that himself, and he would have to do it soon. He’d come to that conclusion when he first clapped eyes on Sara, Baroness Walraven, nee Ponsonby, the beautiful, innocent creature he’d plucked out of live coals only to cast into a raging fire . . . but how to put it right? She’d already gotten under his skin. He didn’t dare keep her, and he couldn’t bear to send her away. He couldn’t tell her, either, and chance exposure. His was a well-kept secret. He couldn’t compromise that. The repercussions would be catastrophic. Not even Alex Mallory knew, only Mills—his valet, his confidante, protector, and friend, just as he’d been Nicholas’s father’s before him. But Nicholas had already cast into the water the pebble that would damn him. The ripples had begun, and there was no way to stop them from spreading.
He glanced up toward Sara’s windows. They were dark. She was asleep. Finally. It was safe to go back now, but back to what—a cold bath and an empty bed, or the madness again? That was the other constant, the unpredictable constant, the one over which he had no control.
His bath was waiting, just as he knew it would be, and Mills was ready to help him into it. The straight-backed, white-haired valet of indeterminable age stood beside the chiffonier in the master suite dressing room. It was heaped with towels, and littered with herbal jars. Beside them, Nicholas’s nightly cordial waited, brewed of skullcap, linden, and hops sweetened with honey. It was supposed to keep him calm, and bring natural sleep. Its effectiveness was questionable, considering the events of the last two days.
Cold though the water was, the strong, pungent aroma of crushed rue, and the sweet evergreen pleasantness of rosemary, wafted toward him from the tub. Purging inside and out: that was the regimen. Gypsy remedies eons old. He’d thought they might be working . . . until Sara.
“You’re going to catch your death out on that cliff, my lord,” the valet predicted, helping him out of his damp clothing. “It’s penetrated you to the skin.” He clicked his tongue, laying the clothes aside.
Nicholas held his breath as he submerged himself in the water. He should be steeled against it by now. Somehow, he never was, and doubted he ever would be. Calm and cold, he had to stay calm and cold. How, when even the faintest image of Sara ghosting across his memory brought his sex to life, the icy water notwithstanding? It soon warmed to his body heat, to the fever in his blood, the blood that caused the madness that wasn’t madness, at least not the stark, staring
variety. That could be cured, and if not, mindless oblivion would be release. There was no release from this breed of madness. That was what it was: a breed—his erect manhood and raised hackles were proof positive of it. If this could be from the mere thought of her, what would happen if they were to touch? He’d nearly scourged his traitorous body raw, before Mills snatched the sponge.
“Here!” the valet cried. “You’ll have no skin left on you, my lord.”
“Pain is the other deterrent, old boy—that, and death.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” the valet scolded, dumping a pitcher of water over his head. “We’re making strides.”
“We were making strides,” Nicholas corrected, shaking himself like a wet dog. “That’s why I thought the arrangement might work. I was a fool.”
The valet wagged his head, dodging the spray. “You were warned, my lord.”
“You know why this . . . marriage had to be,” said Nicholas. “People were beginning to talk, and the on-dits were getting back to me even here, entombed as I am in this drafty old mausoleum. Each time Alex returns, there are more rumors. The ton is rife with them—an eligible bachelor, titled, with lands and wealth, personable enough to appeal to the catch of the Season in Town . . . in seclusion in the wilds of Cornwall. You know how many invitations to fêtes, fête champêtre, routs and balls and teas I’ve refused. The missives arrive daily, and the Season hasn’t yet begun. I shudder to wonder what will be when it does, and I cannot go abroad again. It’s too dangerous. I will surely be found out. Hah! Sara asked if I were a sodomite—not in those words, of course, she was most diplomatic, but that was the gist of it. You know I cannot take her to my bed as I am, and that was what she imagined to be the reason. What am I going to do, Mills? I can’t let her stay, and I can’t let her leave—not now, not ever. It’s only a matter of time before she finds me out.”
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