This was her punishment for flirting outrageously with all the eligible males of the bon ton in London—eligible and ineligible. A man had pride, after all. The straw that broke the camel's back had been the insufferable Viscount Kincaid. Damn smug little monkey! Not only did Richard have to suffer through society's innuendoes but Kincaid's uncomplaining viscountess had to, as well. Embarrassment was an inadequate word to describe the ridiculous spectacle of Kincaid living contentedly in Alicia's pocket.
Of course there was no hard proof that Alicia took the flirtations any further, but if the smirking expressions on the haughty faces at White's Club were any indication, then his wife was on intimate terms with a great number of the beau monde.
Evidently, her most recent conquest was Sir Derek Donnehey. According to a neighbor's letter, that young popinjay had the nerve to come sniffing ‘round Saybrooke Hall. When the unwelcome news arrived, Richard had crumpled the disturbing letter, wishing he could crumple Alicia instead. The fireplace had destroyed the evidence, however Lady Saybrooke was not as easily dismissed.
No man suffered cuckolding lightly, but Alicia's behavior made her just one step above the street doxies. What a fool his all-too-available Countess had made of him. Divorce was out of the question. And murder was only slightly less acceptable.
Richard snorted at his own grim wit. Like it or not, he was stuck with her. And he did not like it; he did not like it one whit.
God forgive him, but it would have been for the best if she had quietly passed on when she came down with that unusual malady a few days ago. Everyone's life would have improved: his, the Dowager's, Terrence's, and even the servants. But no, Biddleton had sent word that Alicia had, unfortunately, recovered. So there had been no reason to leave his archaeological site at Fishbourne to rush to her side. What would have been the purpose? He wouldn't have left now, only, of course, the Dowager insisted. And so, a confrontation was imminent.
The Dowager leaned out of the carriage window to attract his attention. “Richard,” she called over the fierce wind whipping through snow-dipped trees. “I am certain we can finish our journey in the remaining daylight. There is no need to subject ourselves to an additional night at a posting house.”
He guided his horse to ride parallel to the carriage window. “Mother, that would not be wise. With the deficiencies in the road—"
“Bosh! Why, you have set the pace for the entire trip as if you were an old lady. And, if you refer to my own age as advanced, do not let these silver hairs fool you. My retort is just wait until you are five and fifty. You will not find it so old."
Richard laughed. “I would not dream of mentioning a lady's age, Mother. I am a gentleman.”
“Well, you must own that this dusting of snow is no excuse to toddle on the roads. Admit it, you are delaying the inevitable.”
“You know me well, Mother. I cannot relish this visit.”
She glanced back inside the carriage at the sleeping bundle that was his son. When she turned back, a pained expression marred her mature beauty. “Listen to me, Richard. I have three fine sons, but I will admit a slight partiality to my first-born. You have everything: looks, breeding, wealth, and a noble title. I shall overlook the fact that you have a peculiar hobby—digging up old bones. Ancient Roman remains best left underground. You call it archaeology, I call it grave robbing!"
Whether the Dowager actually preferred one son over another was a matter of conjecture. Personally, Richard guessed his youngest brother Nigel edged out the two older brothers.
But he had to defend his life's passion. “I am digging mosaic tiles out of the floor of an ancient Roman palace, Mother. There have been no bones uncovered."
His mother would have none of it. “Piffle, Richard! You should be sitting on top of the world. Instead, you are crippled by a shrewish wife."
As if I did not know. He urged his horse to pick up the pace. “So what would you have me do, Mother?"
The Dowager sank back into the comfortable royal blue cushions and sighed. Regaining strength, she leaned out the window once again. “I have tried to act as arbitrator between you and Lady Alicia, but there is no sense in denying it—your marriage is now a farce. Perhaps it would be best if you obtained a divor—"
“A thousand pardons, Mother. An urgent matter I must attend to.” Richard rode ahead of the carriage on the pretext of speaking to his coachmen. An obvious ploy to forestall additional conversation, to be sure, however his mother's words cut deeply.
At one time, he had been very much in love with his beautiful wife. True, Alicia had been as vain and self-centered as a preening peacock, but he had been willing to indulge her. Indeed, he had loved her to excess. But once she found herself to be increasing, then she had changed.
She made it quite plain that her husband was a non-entity as far as she was concerned. After Terrence's birth, she never forgave Richard or Terrence for the changes motherhood had wrought to her body. She ignored them both and concentrated on her own pleasures. And from some damn place or another, she acquired a device to prevent subsequent births. She took great pains in making sure her husband knew that particular fact.
Richard shook his head sadly. Love had turned to revulsion on Alicia's part. A tragedy, for all three of them.
But he had shirked his duty long enough. Time to face the dragon, to use a phrase.
Doubling back to the carriage window, he called out over the wind. “You win, Mother. We should reach Hambledon by nightfall."
~*~
When Richard and his party arrived at Saybrooke Hall, he was gratified to learn that they were quite unexpected. Not a surprise, since he neglected to inform his staff of the precise day of arrival.
Uncharacteristically nonplused at their sudden appearance, Biddleton composed his features to welcome his lord home. “May I, er, say, Your Lordship, ‘tis good to have you and the young master home again. I, er, trust Milord had an uneventful journey?"
Richard handed the butler his weather-sogged coat, then ushered a hungry Terrence into the arms of his governess. The Dowager was also eager to see to her own comfort, leaving Richard and Biddleton alone in the entryway.
Richard rubbed his jaw as if he had a toothache. Something was amiss but he could not quite put his finger on it. The way the butler repeatedly cleared his throat was one clue. Another was the apparent fascination Biddleton had with the tips of his black serviceable shoes.
It did not take a genius to put two and two together. Whatever troubled the Saybrooke household, it was a certain bet Alicia was the driving force.
“Biddleton, where might I find Lady Alicia?"
The butler bowed. “If Milord wishes to have a glass of brandy in the library, I will fetch Her Ladyship—"
“No. Just give me her direction.” Catching Alicia unawares would give Richard a psychological advantage.
More clearing of the throat. “Her Ladyship has been, er, busy with holiday preparations. May I suggest it would be best if Milord were to wait here—"
“You may not suggest.” What the deuce was going on here? Was Biddleton aiding and abetting the fickle Alicia? Was Richard to be duped in his own house by his own staff? “Blast it, where is my wife?"
“Er, Milady can be found in the Long Gallery. Shall I announce—"
“The devil you will not!” Taking the grand staircase two steps at a time, Richard called back to the butler. “You will stay here and make certain no one intrudes upon My Lady and myself."
Once again, Biddleton bowed, giving Richard a clear view of the man's balding pate. “Very good, Milord."
Hell and damn. Richard continued his climb to the picture gallery. Did he now have to wonder about his staff's loyalty? Why, he would dismiss the lot of them and hire...
Up ahead in the long corridor that housed monumental portraits of his ancestors, his wife stood, holding onto something leafy and green. What the devil?
He proceeded stealthily down the hallway. By Jove, she held a traditional evergreen
kissing bough, made shiny with red apples, bright oranges, and candles, with a clump of mistletoe suspended from the center. An ornament for the upcoming ball? Alicia never involved herself with any mundane activities such as decorating the Hall. What was she about?
Dressed in an unbecoming morning gown—extremely inappropriate evening attire—she suddenly stopped in front of one of the paintings and tilted her head. She was obviously so engrossed with the portrait, she had no inkling she was no longer alone in the gallery.
Richard quietly watched, as a voyeur might. The picture she evidently was committing to memory was of him, one year into their marriage. This was passing strange indeed. Had she already forgotten what he looked like?
Too bad he was not closer for he could not discern her expression. At that moment he would have given his prime set of matched horses to learn what she was thinking.
He heard her sigh, and again, he would have given his eyeteeth to understand its cause. Then, sated with the image of him, she moved a chair from its position against the wall over to the Long Gallery door frame. Pulling up on her dress, which afforded him a generous view of her slender ankles, she stepped up upon the chair and hung the kissing bough in the middle of the wooden frame.
As difficult as it was for him to believe, Alicia actually leaped off the chair.
Time to end this ... whatever the devil was going on.
As he moved closer, she stepped back, still gazing upward at the bough, apparently admiring her handiwork. “There! It looks perfect."
With that, she bumped into him.
“Indeed.” He could not resist commenting. “An appropriate object to compliment your generous behavior, m'dear."
“Oh! Good heavens—” Twirling around, Alicia gasped at the sight of him. Her dark brown eyes widened to dominate her entire face and her rosebud lips gaped open to quiver with surprise. Indeed, she slapped at her chest as if to calm a wildly beating heart.
Richard grinned at his wife's discomposure. Bitter enemies they had been for the past six years, but now, at last, he had the upper hand. “Rustication becomes you, m'dear. I have never seen you looking so ... quaint. Is this gown high gig for the country set? If so, you fit in extremely well."
With satisfaction, he noted the rush of color to her delicate cheeks. Giving Alicia a setdown had, on no other occasion, been this easy. He might enjoy this visit after all.
She jumped back from their brief contact. “Ah, hello. I didn't know you were here."
He frowned. Alicia not responding to his two insults? The first being that she was as wanton as a kissing bough, and the second on her ragged appearance. That was not the only thing different. She looked taller and thinner, even darker in complexion. And her voice, the inflection was off.
Although she didn't meet his gaze, she seemed to be aware of his every movement.
“Christmas is just around the corner, m'dear.” He captured her chin and stared into the pools of her eyes. Begad! It was almost as if looking into the eyes of a stranger! A shiver crawled up his spine. “Have you forgotten the Saybrooke tradition of the gathering of the clan? Such a short memory."
She pulled away from his touch. “Ah, well, I've been busy. So much to do."
“Indeed. I applaud your newfound propensity to frivolously decorate the Hall.” He gestured toward the kissing bough hanging above them.
She shrugged, obviously regaining her aplomb. “Somebody has to do it."
Narrowing his gaze, he then carefully flicked a speck of lint from the sleeve of his navy blue tail coat and watched her with peripheral vision. “The Dowager arrived with me.” Wherever his mother went, so did Terrence.
As expected, Alicia did not acknowledge her son. However a questioning look did appear in her eyes. “Good,” she said calmly. “It will be nice to see her ... again."
Something snapped inside Richard. Perhaps it was his wife's cool voice sounding so much like a stranger's. But most likely it was her brutal hatred of her only child. He advanced upon her, causing her to back away. The Long Gallery door frame blocked her escape. With that, he smiled cruelly. He had nothing but scorn for her.
“You persist in ignoring Terrence, I see. You are the most unnatural, despicable woman in existence.” Richard leaned closer to her, forcing her to flatten her body against the frame.
At one time such intimate contact would have enflamed his desire. Now her nearness only enflamed his animosity toward her. With relish, he encircled his hands around her velvet throat, feeling her frantic pulse. “I only suffer your presence here for his sake. The poor lad is mistakenly excited about seeing his mother again."
She gasped for breath. “B—But—"
“No buts, m'dear. It disturbs me greatly to have my son so abused. Of course, that is no concern of yours, is it? Your heart has hardened against both of us ... that is, if you have a heart."
His hands tightened their grip. Lord help him, but he delighted in this power over her. “Perhaps I should succumb to my baser instincts, eh? Get rid of you ... and tell him his mother had an accident?”
If possible, her eyes widened further. Her fear reflected back at him. Fear that he would lose control and actually do the unthinkable.
Sometimes man had a bestial nature. By all that was holy, this was one of those times. He could not, in any way, be proud of his actions.
Richard glanced up and saw they stood in the shadow of the kissing bough. With a sneer in his voice, he said, “You will forgive me if I forgo the pleasure.”
Releasing his wife, he then strode down the corridor.
CHAPTER FIVE
Alaina was in no mood to eat, but darn her bad luck, Lord Saybrooke had requested her presence in the State Dining Room. Dinner was the furthest thing on her mind. Nerves still on edge from that unexpected encounter in the Long Gallery, she sat in her assigned chair with her back as straight as a board and sipped on a crystal goblet brimmed with a fruity type of wine.
She didn't believe the man would have actually strangled her, but those strong, firm hands around her throat hadn't filled her with goodwill, either. In a soothing gesture, she smoothed her fingers over the side of her neck where her skin throbbed. Did she have bruises? Maybe Lady Rococo was justified in wanting to leave her husband. Who could ever condone violence?
Even now, here at the head of the table, he almost vibrated violence in capital letters. And Lord Saybrooke was a man not to be taken lightly whenever he expressed any emotion. His dark, thick, curly hair; his stormy blue eyes; and his strong, impossibly broad shoulders would turn any woman's head, no matter whether he ran hot or cold. Here was no milquetoast of a man, like Roger Farnsley or even a womanizer like Jack Morrison. This man was a mountain of male virility. But tonight he looked distant and foreboding, almost smoldering with the intensity of his feelings. His somber-colored waistcoat and tail coat mirrored the darkness of his eyes—two obsidian rapiers flashing at Alaina, waiting for her to make a mistake.
Forget sipping. Alaina gulped down the remainder of the wine. In spite of his antagonism, something about this man made all her senses quiver. Good grief, when he had cornered her up against the wall, if she didn't gaze at his lips and wonder what it would be like to kiss him—even as he tightened his hold on her neck!
Cripes! Did she have a problem here, or what?
But from what the man had said, he did have legitimate grievances. He wasn't all thunder and anger. Lady Saybrooke was not a loving mother; Alaina had heard the woman's comments with her own ears. And her husband obviously cared for his son.
Tears stung at her eyes. Poor little Terrence. I wonder how old he is.
“Lady Alicia, are you feeling all right?” asked the other female seated at the overly large table for eighteen. “We have all worried about you with your recent illness."
Lord Saybrooke had referred to this woman as the Dowager, which probably meant she was his mother. She sat across from Alaina, next to her son at the head of the table. A petite, charming woman with pure silver
hair, she had her son's sharp eyes—blue and piercing.
Alaina set down her goblet and smiled at the woman. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Alicia was Lady Rococo. Alicia and Alaina. Almost uncanny in similarity.
“Thank you for your concern ... um, Ma'am.” Heavens, was that the correct way to address a dowager? “I still am not quite myself."
Every time Alaina said that, she had to chuckle.
“Obviously,” drawled Lord Saybrooke as he cut into a slice of roast venison. “You never cared for Madeira before."
Ouch. Another boo-boo. Deliberately signaling to a footman to refill her glass, she glanced over at her rude tormentor. “Is that so? I wonder then why Madeira is served at the table?"
The Dowager coughed into her napkin. Was she possibly covering a laugh?
Lord Saybrooke flicked his dagger-like gaze over Alaina, then turned his attention back to his plate. “My preference is for congenial company at the table. However, you are here, Madam. Therefore, we do not always get what we want."
This time the Dowager gasped and she was unable to hide it.
Wow, this guy was impressive. Alaina took another sip, enjoying the buzz from the alcohol and pitting her wits against this clever, attractive man.
“No, I suppose not,” she agreed. “But just to put your mind at rest, Doctor Yates said because of the illness, it might be a little while before my, um, memory completely returns."
The white lie concerning the doctor wouldn't hurt. Just insurance for her peculiar behavior until the real Alicia returned.
“How awful for you, Lady Alicia,” the dowager murmured. “Still, I do believe the country air agrees with you. You have such a healthy glow."
Evidently, Lord Saybrooke couldn't stand hearing a compliment about his “wife.” He speared a broccoli and chewed it with relish. “Unfashionably browned, more like."
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