A ringing silence followed her speech. Lord Gatwick stared at her, but Angelica found it impossible to tell what he thought of her declaration. She had no hint whatsoever to his thoughts on marriage, to her or anyone else.
She broke the silence by opening her purse and pulling out a damp letter. “It’s all in here,” she said, presenting it to him. “This is a copy of Grandpa Miles’s will along with a letter from his lawyer confirming its veracity.”
Lord Gatwick took a breath as he accepted the letter, which gave the appearance of him coming to life again. “Thank you,” he said, utterly polite, and set to work opening the envelope and carefully removing its contents.
As he read through the documents, Angelica pivoted to survey the room. The study wasn’t as large as the other room she’d seen on their walk from the foyer, or the rooms her adopted grandfather had waxed on about. It was cozy, though. The glowing fire brought a measure of warmth that only barely cut through Angelica’s sodden state. The furnishings were newer than some of what she’d glimpsed in the other rooms. It was the walls that drew her attention, however.
“Good heavens, is that a Degas?” she asked, her jaw dropping at the sight of the masterpiece hanging behind a desk as though it were taking a holiday from a museum.
Lord Gatwick glanced up from his reading, his brow lifting. “You know Degas?”
“Of course I do,” Angelica answered, stepping closer to study the painting. She turned to Lord Gatwick. “And I’m certain I saw a Tissot in the hallway.”
“You are familiar with James Tissot as well?” Lord Gatwick lowered the letters altogether and joined her in gazing at the painting.
“I am quite fond of art,” Angelica said. “I find everything currently coming out of Paris to be fascinating. The Impressionist movement is revolutionary.”
“I think so as well,” he said, though his voice was heavy with reservation.
Angelica studied him for a moment, feeling as though the floor had tilted slightly. In her experience, men were tyrants, not connoisseurs. But that wasn’t enough for her to go trusting her intended yet. “Grandpa Miles promised me several times he would take me to Paris to see the works of Monet, Renoir, and Manet, but we never went,” she went on, gazing up at the Degas once more. “I still hope to go someday. If I have the financial wherewithal for the trip.” She glanced sideways at him, waiting to see how he would react.
Lord Gatwick took a step back, his brow knitting in thought once more. He glanced at the papers in his hands and seemed to focus in on himself. Angelica held her breath, anxious to see whether he would belittle her hopes and send her away or take advantage of her friendlessness and thrust himself on her without the benefit of marriage.
He did neither, which both lifted her hopes and put her more on her guard. She was on the verge of taking charge and opening marriage negotiations, as per Grandpa Miles’s wishes, when a regal, grey cat strode into the room. Her expression brightened.
“Hello,” she said bending slightly to greet the cat. “Aren’t you a handsome thing.”
The cat strolled closer to her to investigate. It sniffed at her sodden skirts. When she extended a hand toward it, it sniffed for a moment, then rubbed his face against her fingers. She rewarded it for the show of friendship by scratching behind its ears.
When she glanced up, Lord Gatwick was staring at her with wide eyes.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Angelica said with a slight blush, standing straighter. “I like cats.”
Lord Gatwick glanced from the cat to her, then said, “Styx doesn’t usually like guests.”
“Oh.” Angelica smiled at the cat once more. “Thank you kindly for that honor,” she told Styx.
A curious light filled Lord Gatwick’s eyes. He studied her for a moment longer. “I need my solicitor to review these documents,” he said at last. “I need to determine their validity. I am concerned that I was not informed of Uncle Miles’s demise or his will earlier.”
“The will was only read last month,” Angelica explained, turning to him, her heart racing. “Grandpa Mile’s lawyer said he would contact you, but I told him I would deliver the documents myself.”
Lord Gatwick nodded, but Angelica couldn’t tell if that meant he believed her or not. She was certain of one thing, though. If he was going to attack her, he would have done it already. It was time for her to put her fears aside and consider the reality of her situation.
“Blackmoor Close is hardly a resort,” he said, “but it would be crass of me to turn you out or to fail to offer you shelter here until the veracity of the whole thing can be determined.”
Angelica narrowed her eyes slightly. “Are you inviting me to stay?”
He hesitated. She could see some sort of conflict in his eyes. She held her breath, praying for her luck to change.
At long last, he said, “Yes. I am inviting you to stay. But I must write to my cousin, Lady Lavinia Helm, immediately and implore her to come stay as a chaperone while you are here.”
“I understand,” Angelica said, dripping with relief. She wouldn’t have to stay at Blackmoor Close alone. She wouldn’t be forced into a disadvantageous position. Not only that, the longer she stayed under Lord Gatwick’s roof, the better her chances of convincing him to marry her were.
“Tea, your lordship,” Mr. Baxter said as he entered the room, a large, silver tea service in his hands.
“Thank you, Baxter,” Lord Gatwick said. “And have Lucy prepare a room for Miss LeClaire. She may need her things laundered and dried as well because of the rain. See if there is anything dry she might wear in the meantime. I believe Miss LeClaire will be our guest for some time.”
Chapter 3
He’d been too long without company. That was the only possible explanation for Mark’s madness in inviting Miss Angelica LeClaire to stay at Blackmoor Close. It was a mad decision at that. He had no way to prove she was who she said she was until Walton, his solicitor, reviewed the documents she’d brought with her, contacted his great-uncle’s people in New Orleans, and verified the details. It seemed odd that he hadn’t been made aware of his great-uncle’s death sooner, but if he were honest with himself, perhaps his solicitor had mentioned correspondence from his American relatives. But his preoccupation with Shayles and fortifying his estate had pushed the details out of his mind and neglected to ask for details.
Still, that was no excuse for allowing a complete stranger, a woman who was foreign in every way, shelter under his roof. A woman who claimed to be his fiancée. A woman who was utterly self-possessed and determined. A beautiful woman.
He blinked over his last thought, dragging his eyes back to his breakfast instead of continuing to stare at Angelica at the other end of the table. His face went hot with embarrassment as he schooled his expression to complete blankness. Part of him had hoped she would be gone by morning, abandoning her mad marriage plans when she saw he wasn’t going to take her at her word without thoroughly checking her story. But she’d marched into the breakfast room with her head held high only minutes after he’d seated himself at the small table. She’d greeted him with a smile that had set every one of his nerves on end, took a seat opposite him, and politely asked the servants for extra ham with her eggs.
And she ate it too. Mark had never seen a woman with such a hearty appetite, at least not one who displayed that appetite in public. Even Styx seemed taken aback as he sat watching breakfast from a sunny spot in the corner. In a way, it was incongruous. Angelica was lean and svelte. Her waist was trim—though not impossibly narrow, like a lady who laced her corset too tightly—and her breasts had a pleasing roundness to them that wasn’t overly endowed.
He blinked, catching his breath. What business did he have commenting on Miss Angelica LeClaire’s breasts, even to himself? He did not think about those things. He hadn’t allowed himself to consider the female form as anything other than an object of art for nearly twenty-five years, and with good reason. The way his pulse quickened and his trousers
tightened was utterly inappropriate. He never should have let Angelica stay. But she had noticed his Degas, she’d had an opinion about art, and she had stared at him with those large, dark, implacable eyes of hers, seeing him and not “Theodore Shayles’s lackey.” Not to mention the fact that Styx liked her.
“I’m glad to see the sun has come out,” she said, startling him out of his thoughts. Prickles of embarrassment broke out on his skin. “I was beginning to think England never saw the sun.”
“The weather can be quite pleasant,” he said with careful civility. “Particularly at this time of year.”
“I look forward to enjoying it.” She smiled, finishing the last of her toast. She reached for her tea, but before taking a sip, she said, “You looked quite lost in your thoughts just now.”
Mark’s back went straight and his face heated even more. Did she have some magical ability to see into his mind? God forbid. Or was he so out of practice in keeping his emotions veiled after months alone that he’d lost the ability? It was a terrible idea to allow her to stay.
“I have had little but my thoughts to keep me company these last few months,” he said before he could think better of it.
“I was wondering about that,” she said, setting her cup down. “I must confess, as I made the approach yesterday, I was convinced the house was abandoned.”
“Circumstances are such that I have no guests at present,” he said.
“And you have no family,” she went on, stating fact rather than asking the question, as if she already knew too much about him. “No friends either?” Her thin, dark eyebrows lifted a fraction.
“No. I have no friends,” he said. A sliver of the familiar coldness he’d cultivated pierced him, though it now brought with it disappointment and a sense of lost opportunity.
Angelica’s expression dropped into a frown of concern. She pressed her lips together as she studied him. Full lips with a pleasing tint of rose to them. They complimented her elegant nose and high cheekbones beautifully. Mark’s hands twitched as though already sketching her features. He wondered if her skin was as soft as it appeared.
A fresh wave of revulsion at the laxity of his thoughts hit Mark. He cleared his throat and hid his shame by reaching for his teacup. He was not Shayles, not one of his disgusting, lascivious cronies. He would view women with respect, not as objects of lust.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone without friends before,” Angelica said, relaxing into a compassionate smile. “And I doubt I’ve met one now,” she went on.
“I can assure you,” Mark said in a strangled voice between sips of tea. “You’ve met one now.”
Angelica shook her head. “Impossible. I will be your friend.”
Dammit, but her words struck his heart. He scowled at himself and downed the rest of his tea, then stood. “If you will excuse me, I have much work to do.”
It was a lie, but it allowed him to move away from the table all the same. Styx leapt up, ready to accompany him on his solitary patrol of the house. Angelica also stood and stepped into Mark’s path.
“Can your work wait?” she asked. “With the sun finally out, I was hoping to go outside to get some exercise. I was hoping you’d come with me.”
Everything she said hit Mark like the scent of unfamiliar flowers on a foreign shore in a land he’d never known existed. He didn’t know how to reply, which made him hesitate. She probably thought he was thick.
“I do not go outside,” he said, instantly knowing he was thick.
Angelica laughed in a way he could only describe as American. “Everyone goes outside. Sunshine and vigorous activity are essential for health. Surely you must be eager to stretch your legs after so much rain.”
“I….” He faltered, unable to think of an objection that didn’t make him sound ridiculous. He glanced to Styx, as though the cat would come up with an excuse for him. But Styx only stretched, yawned, and sniffed his way back to the table to see if he could snag leftovers.
“Would it interfere with your work to ask you to give me a tour of Blackmoor Close’s grounds?” Angelica asked before he could think of how to go on. “Grandpa Miles told me everything I could possibly want to know and more about the house, but he didn’t speak much of the grounds.”
Mark tensed. He could tell spending the morning with Angelica was a terrible idea because deep down, it was exactly what he wanted to do. And following his desires had never been a good idea. But she was his guest, and he couldn’t very well skulk in his studio until she left. He felt bad enough hiding away at Blackmoor Close to begin with.
“All right,” he said with a slight bow. “I would be delighted to give you a tour of the grounds and gardens.” He was certain he looked ridiculous making the offer with a bland, blank face, but his emotions were so knotted together that he wouldn’t have known how to look if he’d tried.
“Wonderful,” Angelica said, moving toward the doorway with visible energy. “I’ll just fetch my cloak, if it’s dry yet, and I’ll meet you in the foyer in ten minutes?”
“As you wish.” Mark inclined his head to her.
As soon as she scurried out of the room, he gulped an anxious breath. What kind of a man was he if he was in over his head when faced with walking in the sunshine with a beautiful foreigner? Not much of a man at all, he answered himself. And that was his problem.
Angelica’s cloak was still damp, so she plucked an unattractive, knit shawl from the small portion of her clothes that the maids of Blackmoor Close hadn’t taken away to restore to freshness, and hurried back into the hall. She looked forward to her walk as far more than a way to become familiar with the estate. She was eager to learn more about Mark.
Something was terribly wrong with her intended. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but everything about him hinted at tragedy, misfortune, and trouble. Her usual fear response to men—especially men who had the potential to dominate her—had lessened when she observed his taste in art. He didn’t carry himself like the predators she’d known either. When he’d admitted without emotion that he had no friends her heart had nearly broken in two, not because of the lack of moroseness in the way he’d said it but because she believed him. But she wanted to know why. Why did a man who was handsome, well-mannered, titled, and intelligent not have any friends? It was uncanny for her to feel curiosity where she expected to feel trepidation.
He was waiting by the front door wearing a light coat and hat when she reached the bottom of the stairs. The tabby cat that never seemed to be far from his side stood a few feet away, grooming itself as if it too were waiting to walk out into the sunshine.
“I see we have a chaperone,” Angelica said, grinning at Styx.
Mark glanced down at his companion. He didn’t smile, but his face softened. “He probably wants to chase birds instead of mice for a while.”
As soon as Angelica reached Mark’s side, he opened the front door, letting the cat out, and offered his arm. She took it, then squinted up to the sun, sighing in contentment, as they stepped out of the house. Styx was off like a shot, gamboling into the garden. Angelica felt like running and leaping after it.
“How did Styx get his name?” she asked as they crossed the gravel drive to a flagstone path that curved around the grand house. “He seems too sweet to have been named after the River Styx that one must cross to reach Hades.”
“And yet, that is precisely what he was named after,” Mark said without elaborating.
Angelica wanted elaboration. She wanted that and much more. She wanted the man she was determined to marry to spill all of his secrets, which she suspected were vast in number. She wanted to know why she wasn’t afraid of him. “But how does a cat end up being named after a river?” she asked.
The same, closed-off look that had come over Mark suddenly at least a dozen times in the few, short conversations she’d had with him returned. She found that and the resulting hesitation to be as curious as any story about a cat’s name.
“He was
given his name at a house party I hosted a few years ago,” he said at last as they rounded the corner of the house and entered a carefully-maintained garden planted in the French style. “Styx and his littermates were barely more than six weeks old. A…an acquaintance of mine found them and thought it would be good fun to drown them all in the river.”
“No,” Angelica gasped, horrified at the thought.
Mark’s expression hardened to stone. His eyes went cold and dead. “I was waylaid on my way to stop them, and by the time I reached the river, only Styx was left. He was putting up a fight though, hissing and growling. Which, of course only made my…acquaintance laugh. He hurled Styx into the river, but I jumped in after him and saved him.”
“Good for you,” Angelica said, even though the rest of the story was appalling.
Mark paused before continuing with, “They say that if one is dipped in the River Styx, they become invulnerable. Styx managed to survive that house party and the loss of his mother and siblings as well. I had to let him sleep in my bed for the rest of the house party to keep the guests from finding him, as they were intent to do.”
Angelica didn’t know what to say. Part of her was caught up in the image of a grown man cuddling with a tiny kitten in his bed. Part of her found it noteworthy that Mark had thought his bed was a place that no one else would be during a house party. She knew enough of such events to know bed-hopping was common. The rest of her began to understand why Mark had no friends if the sort of people with which he’d been associated would make a sport of drowning kittens.
She knew she’d been silent for too long when Mark said, “This is the rose garden, planted by my mother when she came to Blackmoor Close as a new bride in eighteen thirty-four,” as if he was a guide leading a professional tour. “Mother adored roses and took special care in cultivating them, or so I’ve been told.”
October Revenge Page 3