by Ashley March
The horses would have to ride hard through the storm, but he could very well reach the Wriothesly estate the next afternoon. It would be only a short while after Angela would have arrived, and to think he would be able to see her again so soon . . .
In a matter of minutes, Sebastian managed to eliminate piece after piece of the ebony set, including the king’s bishop. “Check.”
James tapped the table. “I seem to recall asking you to pretend to notice me. I never asked you to win.”
Sebastian edged his chair away. “Hurry and make your move.”
“Leaving so soon, are you?” James asked with a grin.
“Yes, damn you, now take my rook so I can—”
A knock sounded at the sitting room door.
“Enter,” Sebastian called, glaring at James as he took his merry time in lifting his queen into the air, then slowly moved it toward the remaining white rook.
“My lord. A message has arrived for you.”
Sebastian gestured absently in the direction of the butler, then, realizing how late it was, lifted his gaze to the doorway with a frown. “Who is it from, Wallace?”
“A Mr. Grigsby, my lord. I beg your pardon. I wouldn’t have interrupted your game, but the messenger said it was most urgent.”
“One moment.” Sebastian turned to find his rook gone. With one last move, he shifted his queen across the board to trap James’ king. “Checkmate.”
“Yes, it’s a great surprise, that one is,” James muttered. Then with a wave of his hand toward the doorway, he added, “At least find what your mysterious message is about before you go.”
“You’re very generous as a loser, aren’t you?”
With a faint smile at James’ retorted oath, Sebastian beckoned for the folded parchment. It was cheap, the material coarse beneath his fingers, and spattered with raindrops. “A Mr. Grigsby, you said?” he asked without looking up.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Hmm.” Unfolding the letter, Sebastian bent it toward the light. He read slowly, his mind distracted by thoughts of Angela.
And then he saw her title.
Lady Wriothesly . . .
He read again, and again, and each time the words refused to coalesce into any meaningful coherence.
. . . identified by crest . . . carriage accident . . . coachman injured, man and woman killed ... coachman informed . . . Lady Wriothesly . . . Mr. Ian George . . .
The letter began shaking before his eyes. No, his hand was shaking. The letter . . .
He must have said something, because he could hear James calling to him.
Angela was dead. His beautiful, sweet, beloved wife.
And Ian, too. His closest friend.
They were dead. Together.
Fragments of thought collided, then fused into a numbed comprehension. Sebastian stared at the letter, his thumb rubbing the ink until it smeared. He heard James’ voice: “Sebastian, what is it?” Then the letter was gone.
And all he could think was:
She hadn’t been lonely, after all.
Chapter 2
Are you aware, Mr. George, that I am a married woman? A single kiss will not sway my heart . . . although perhaps two will do.
In a way Sebastian could have defined his friendship with Ian by the walks they’d taken together. Those first midnight escapades when they roamed the grounds at Eton, waiting for a light at the end of the chapel to appear and signal the arrival of Willie Foster’s ghost. A few years later, the hikes up the steep slopes around the Wriothesly estate on summer holidays from Cambridge. Then strolls through the park as they flirted with the ladies of the ton, trying to best each other with grand demonstrations of gallantry.
It had been Ian he’d leaned on as they meandered drunkenly through the streets of London the night before Sebastian’s wedding, Ian who paced in the study with him during Henry’s birth.
Perhaps that was why Sebastian felt so peculiar now, marching alongside Ian’s coffin. The man with whom he’d taken all those walks had been someone he knew and trusted, someone closer to him than even his own brother. But this man now, lying stiff and broken inside a box of polished oak and silver trimmings, meant nothing. His was the corpse of a stranger with the name of a friend. That was all.
The march from the church to the grave was short. It would have been over quickly, if not for the throng of mourners in the procession. Many had adored Ian; as at Angela’s funeral, the fragmented sound of suppressed grief filled the air. Sobs which would not be given full breath, moans reduced to low gasps, tears which would have gone unnoticed except for the occasional sniffle or whimper.
Sebastian had not cried at Angela’s funeral, but delayed until he’d reached the solitude of his own bedchamber. No tears would be shed for Ian—not now, and not anytime afterward.
As the procession approached, clods of heavy black earth tumbled from the edge of the grave into the empty pit below. Though the soil had been packed the day before, bits and pieces frayed by the morning dew collapsed into the void with each strike of their feet.
Soon the pulleys were set, and Sebastian stood nearby with the others as the workers lowered the blackenshrouded coffin into the ground. The final walk was over.
Sebastian jolted at the first thud of earth flung into the opening. At the second, he was seized with the irrational, contradictory impulse to either leverage the coffin out of the ground or wrench the shovel from the sexton’s hands and bury Ian himself.
How dare he have loved her? To be the last person to see Angela’s face, to even now be with her in death. She should have grown old by Sebastian’s side, her beauty fading until it was only visible through the veil of kindness and generosity he’d always known. They would have had more children and eventually grandchildren. Her illness would have—
Yes, her bloody illness.
Sebastian flinched as a sob broke loose to his right.
God, how easily he’d been betrayed.
Minutes passed as the pile of dirt at the grave’s side continued to dwindle. The sound of mourning became more pronounced. A black mass of crepe and bombazine huddled together, an ugly welt of pain and grief beneath the pristine blue morning sky.
And while they suffered, the rage inside Sebastian mounted to a nearly unbearable crescendo until, with the last shovel of earth, it finally turned from Ian and Angela to himself.
For there could exist no greater fool than he, to be so ignorant and trusting that he hadn’t realized the truth of their betrayal. And now, even knowing what they had done, to still wish for both of them back.
As was customary of the ladies of the house, Leah didn’t attend the funeral in the village near Rennell House. Instead, she stayed with Ian’s mother for most of the day, consoling her as much as she could, only leaving when the viscountess remembered another task that must be seen to.
While Leah’s tears had eventually dried the night she learned of the carriage accident, the grief of Lady Rennell was a relentless spring. No amount of handkerchiefs or cups of tea could stop it, and Leah’s ears rang with the echoes of her sobs even after the viscount escorted his wife to her bedchamber for the night.
The following morning, Leah rose from bed when the first rays of sunshine paled the burgundy curtains to a pink mauve. She went to the window and sat, expecting to be summoned soon by the viscountess. After an hour passed and no maid entered to wake her or help her dress, she assumed she’d been given the day to grieve alone.
If only they knew how she’d mourned Ian’s loss a year ago, when she’d discovered him with his head bent to Lady Wriothesly’s bare breasts. Though she may have cried from shock the night of his death, her heart had already been broken. Even if she wanted to, she doubted she could make herself shed another tear.
Outside the window, the branch of an ash tree forked toward the sill. Leah watched as a small brown wren hopped up and down, chirping with glee. There was no mourning here, no thought of hushing his song in memory of the dead. And even though
she was alone and no one could see her, she still felt ashamed for smiling at the bird’s solitary parade along the branch. Guilty that she should take delight in such a thing, when the woman she’d been raised to be, the widow she’d now become, should have wallowed in misery rather than seek out pleasure. At least, that’s what a proper widow should have done.
It was easy to stay inside the bedchamber all morning and avoid everyone’s expectations. In here, she didn’t have to substitute a veil for a widow’s cap in order to hide the fact that her eyes weren’t red-rimmed, her face not pale and worn. She needn’t remember to keep her voice lowered and small so others would think it’d been strained from the effort of holding back her tears.
The room was a convenient cage, but eventually the wren flew away and Leah grew tired of pacing between the same four walls. Even though it meant facing the Rennells’ entire household and their sympathetic glances, she drew a fortifying breath and called for her maid to help her dress.
Not five minutes after she’d departed the guest bedchamber, a footman found her swathed in endless yards of wrinkled black crepe.
“Beg pardon, Mrs. George, but there’s a gentleman here to see you.”
Leah peered at the footman through the black shroud of her veil. It was beyond strange that someone should call on her, not only at her in-laws’ house, but also so shortly after Ian’s death. Not only come to call, but actually expect to see her.
“Who is it?” she asked quietly, lowering her gaze to the navy trim of the hallway runner.
“The Earl of Wriothesly, madam. He’s been waiting in the drawing room for two hours. He wished me to convey his apologies, but says it’s most urgent that he speak with you.”
“Yes, of course.” With a nod of dismissal, Leah reversed her direction and turned toward the drawing room. In truth, she was surprised Wriothesly had waited this long to seek her out. Every day since Ian’s death she’d expected to see him, or to find a letter delivered at her door, at least. Not only because he’d been Ian’s closest friend, but also because he must now know the truth of Ian’s relationship with the Countess of Wriothesly.
God rest their souls.
Leah forced her fists to unclench as she entered the drawing room. Like all the other public rooms in the house, it still wore the mark of death: windows opened, blinds pulled down, the mirror covered in black cloth. The earl sat rigidly on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the opposite wall, the tea service before him untouched.
Here, Leah thought, was an example of true mourning. Although only his profile was visible from the doorway, grief was etched clearly on the stark planes of his face. His brow was pulled low, his lips tugged tightly inward, and the pale cast of his skin contrasted severely with the dark brown of his hair. Did he grieve for both of them? she wondered. If so, he was a far better Christian than she.
As her gaze touched upon the black ribbon tied around the hat he’d set to the side, his head swung toward her. He immediately stood and bowed. “Forgive me, Mrs. George. I wasn’t aware of your presence.”
Behind her veil, Leah’s mouth almost curved. His execution of the niceties was exquisite, his countenance smoothing into all that was generous and hospitable, and yet his rebuke couldn’t have been clearer: how dare she make a study of him while not announcing her arrival?
“Lord Wriothesly,” she acknowledged with a curtsy. The distance between them was more than a matter of measurement; he seemed almost a stranger without Ian there as a bridge to provide them common ground. “You wished to speak with me?”
“Yes, I wanted to—” He stopped, frowning as his eyes narrowed on her veil.
Leah dropped her gaze accordingly, realizing belatedly that her voice had sounded a bit too bright.
“First, I wish to give you my condolences for your loss.”
“And mine for yours,” she returned, then watched as he inclined his head solemnly.
Oh, how well they each played their parts. Perhaps it was the requisite exchange of formalities, or the way Wriothesly appeared determined to skirt around a truth they both knew too well, but Leah suddenly found she didn’t have the patience to continue this specific role. Not right now, not after spending the past year as the dutiful, perfect, and docile wife, pretending to everyone that all was as it should be. Even if he was in mourning, he needn’t play this particular game of charades with her. After so much time spent in each other’s homes, they’d moved past society’s dictates for courteous acquaintances, hadn’t they?
“Such a terrible accident, was it not?” she asked.
“Indeed.” His mouth tightened, but he gave no other indication he heard the irreverence in her tone. Instead, he gestured toward the sofa behind him. “I believe this might be easiest if we sit.”
Leah stared. He acted as if she needed coddling, to be prepared for distressing news. Surely he didn’t think he needed to inform her of her own husband’s infidelity?
“Mrs. George? Will you have a seat? Shall I ring a maid to pour the tea?”
She shook her head. “No tea, thank you.” She walked forward, moving around him to sit on the sofa as he’d suggested, then waited as he lowered himself to the chair opposite. For a long moment, he made no move to speak, only adjusted the fitting of his black gloves. When he finally glanced at her again, Leah held up her hand. “Please, my lord, let’s forsake this polite facade. I believe we’re both aware of the nature of the relationship between Ian and Lady Wriothesly.”
He blew out a harsh breath. “It wasn’t a very discreet way to die, was it?”
“I agree. It was quite inconsiderate of them.” Humor. It had been such a long time since she’d found anything to be amused by. How unfortunate that it happened to be at the expense of her dead husband and his lover.
Apparently this time Lord Wriothesly wasn’t able to ignore the flippancy in her tone. Even through the safety of her veil, his eyes bored into hers, studying her until the black crepe seemed to have no more substance than the very air they breathed. Leah tilted her head and smiled.
His jaw clenched. “Either you’ve developed a very deep dislike for your husband in only a short time or you already knew of the affair.”
“I believe it began four months after we were married, although I didn’t find out until much later.” And while she may have cursed him, screamed at him, she’d never found the strength to hate him. It had been easier to withdraw into herself, away from Ian, her family, all of society.
“Four months after . . . They’ve been having an affair for an entire year?” Wriothesly lurched to his feet and began pacing the room, one black glove burrowing through his hair. At length he halted at the other end of the drawing room, his back toward her, and stared at the closed blinds of the window.
Leah observed his agony from a distance. She wasn’t without sympathy—God knew the hell she’d lived in when she too had discovered the truth. But she’d suppressed her own emotions for so long, it was almost embarrassing to see his put on such transparent display.
Then he lifted his arms, planted his hands against the wall, and bowed his head. As if he didn’t have the strength to support himself.
Leah glanced away, only to find her gaze dragged back toward him a moment later. Perhaps she’d been mistaken to tell him, to draw him into the secret world she’d never shared with anyone else. Now, just by observing the slight tremble of his shoulders, she felt the wound she’d so carefully stitched together begin to unravel again.
She stood from the sofa, once more grateful for the veil’s thin disguise. “Please excuse me, my lord. I should leave—”
“No.” He whirled around, so quickly it took a moment for her to register the emotion on his face as not one of pain, but of rage. “You will not go.”
Her spine instinctively straightened. “My lord?”
Wriothesly advanced toward her. “You should have told me when you realized what was going on between them. I had a right to know.”
“Oh? And what was I to say? I beg you
r pardon, Lord Wriothesly, but your wife seems to have acquired a distinct liking for my husband’s cock. Would you mind kindly retrieving her to your own bed?”
He froze. Stared at her.
Leah blinked. Dear Lord. She’d said cock.
Every sinew in her body thrummed with mortification and her throat ached with the need to stammer words of apology, but she pressed her lips together. The pleasure of that small act of rebellion surprised her, and as Wriothesly’s eyes narrowed, Leah lifted her chin. A long moment passed in which they simply looked at each other. She was tempted to say it again, if only to see what his reaction would be to the second utterance.
Cock.
She tested the word in her mind. She’d never spoken it aloud before, didn’t actually consider it a part of her vocabulary—just a sound relegated to a category of others too base and crude for a lady to use.
“I think we can both agree that Ian must have seduced her,” Wriothesly ground out at last, his gaze flicking past her shoulder.
“Of course,” she replied, disturbed by the contradiction between the opulence of his green irises and the scarcity of the eyelashes framing them. Although she still resented the countess, for a moment Leah could understand how easily Angela must have been swayed from her marriage vows. Compared to Ian’s golden splendor and open charm, the earl would have appeared no more appealing than a mountain, all stark angles and planes, with nothing but the verdant color of his eyes to provide relief from his barren countenance.
“Regardless of exactly what transpired between them, or that you should have informed me of the affair when you discovered the truth, I’ve come to request a favor from you.”
“Yes?”
He turned aside to pick up his hat. “Everyone believes Angela and Ian were traveling to Hampshire because she was ill.”
“I’ve heard the story. Very well done, my lord. To have him, your dear and trusted friend, accompany her when you could not. And how convenient, isn’t it, for Ian to have planned to visit our own house in Wiltshire after seeing the countess safely home?” Leah paused, attempted to swallow the bitterness from her tongue. She added softly, “You must have loved Lady Wriothesly very much, to care about her reputation even now.”