by Lisa Bingham
She didn’t flinch at his nakedness, and that seemed to spark a flame of admiration. Several minutes inched past as he took his measure of her, but she refused to back down. She even allowed herself a leisurely survey of his body, and though she trembled at what she saw, she refused to appear the meek, frightened virgin.
Evidently amused by the silent test of wills, Richard reached to touch her cheek, then halted midway, a curious frown appearing between his brows. Tipping his head in consideration, he traced the wind-tousled ringlets that had escaped the confines of her coif.
Chelsea stood stock still, her pulse scrabbling at her throat. Surely he couldn’t remember how she had caressed him so wantonly during their journey to Bellemoore. Surely he couldn’t remember the way they’d kissed. Until now, she had seen no recognition, and she’d thought herself safe. But she feared that even through his drugged haze, some shred of a memory remained like a seed waiting to sprout.
He seemed to consider some monumental puzzle. Then he grinned. A slow, secret grin that sent tingles down her spine. She didn’t trust that smile. It made her think of exposed secrets and hidden delights. He had remembered something. She could only pray it wasn’t much.
“I think we’d better return to the house.”
When she tried to retreat, he caught her behind the neck. His flesh was icy and damp, smelling of clear water and male musk.
He scoured the length of her body as if he’d never really noticed her before. Then, without warning, he released her, scooped his clothing from the ground, and brushed by her to return to the house, leaving Chelsea with the task of following the taut curves of his buttocks the entire way.
“Mast—” She broke off and began again. “Richard?”
He twisted to shoot a questioning glance over his shoulder.
“I think you should dress first. It would be best.” When he didn’t move, she pointed to the clothing he held. “Dress, please.”
Richard blinked uncomprehendingly, then grinned in evident amusement, and he dropped the items to the ground. He took his shirt. Chelsea watched, unabashed, as he drew the linen garment over his shoulders, thereby obscuring the lean line of his back and the narrow square of his hips. But when he began to don the scrap of red-orange cloth, she averted her head.
Her first clue that he had finished was when a set of wet fingers twined between her own. He had approached her so silently, she hadn’t been aware of his arrival. He had dressed in his shirt and loincloth, but the breeches were tucked under his free arm.
“Your trousers,” she prompted, pointing to the bundle.
He shook his head and tugged. Although it wasn’t proper for a woman in her position to allow a half-dressed, semi-educated savage to take her hand and lead her down the garden path …
Chelsea didn’t demur.
Nigel was not at home when the stranger approached Lindon Manor. Reginald was the first to see him. The summer air had grown hot and heavy so late in the afternoon, and most of the guests had retired to their rooms to rest. Except for one couple listlessly exploring the grounds and an eighty-five-year-old matron snoring from the rocker placed under a tree, Reginald had the estate virtually to himself.
Not normally in the habit of searching the road for travelers, Reginald had come to the front steps to smoke one of his rare cheroots. Upon looking up, he had paused. The man in the saddle was tall, lean, impeccably groomed. He was big-framed—not flabby—but of the sort whose bones were solid, his flesh pure muscle. His hair curled carelessly about his face and touched the collar of his frock coat in a manner that proclaimed: I don’t give a damn. His face reflected that sentiment—cleanly cut, bluntly shaped—its expression bordering on arrogant disdain.
When the stranger brought his animal to a trot, then a slow walk, Reggie ground his cheroot beneath his heel, automatically noting the fine breed of the stallion and its owner’s excellent command of the beast.
The man swung to the pea-gravel path and tossed the reins to a waiting footman with the careless abandon of a person accustomed to being waited upon. He appeared unaware of Reggie as he scrutinized the neoclassical facade of Lindon Manor.
“I would like to speak to the Earl of Lindon.”
The words were issued without warning and contained a barely noticeable chill.
“In what capacity?”
“Business.”
“Your name?”
“Cane. Gregory Cane.”
Nigel Sutherland ambled forward, keeping to the trees that surrounded the garden at Bellemoore. Legend said that dead men told no tales. But those who were about to die told volumes.
Reginald had told him that Smythe and Jones had confessed that Richard Sutherland was abiding at Bellemoore. After cooling his heels for more than a week because of unexpected business, Nigel had finally managed to come see for himself. Minutes ago, he’d approached the cottage to find the windows flung wide to catch the surly breezes. Odd, since, according to his sources, Beatrice Sutherland was still in London and no one was supposed to be in residence.
It was at that precise moment he’d seen Chelsea Wickersham.
When she’d stormed out of the kitchen and hurried up the path leading into the moors, he’d been momentarily stunned by the changes he’d seen in her. So much so, he hadn’t been able to summon the presence of mind to follow her. He’d been riveted by the first sight of her hair, her face, her form, that he’d witnessed in over ten years.
Chelsea Wickersham had grown even more beautiful in a decade. Where the painted features of the portrait he owned still held a hint of things to come, the woman he’d seen had met those implied promises. Her manner was controlled and determined, her posture proud and feminine. Her face … he had guessed she would become this exquisitely beautiful. That was why he’d spirited her away from her homeland so early in life. He’d known that if he waited for her to mature, some other man would snap her up.
Nigel flinched, experiencing the tight burn of need. Time had not dimmed his desire to possess this female. She was on the verge of destroying him, and he found that it wasn’t Richard Sutherland who entered his thoughts, or their ultimate confrontation, or Chelsea’s machinations.
It was this woman. His hunger for her had not been blunted. His obsession had not waned. He would have her. He would see her kneeling at his feet, begging for his forgiveness, his mercy, his touch.
Then he would own her. Once and for all.
Mounting his horse, Nigel pointed the animal toward home, not even bothering to wait for a glimpse of the elusive Sutherland heir. There were plenty of opportunities ahead for all that. Right now, he wished to indulge himself in a bit of sport. It was time Chelsea Wickersham was given a taste of her own medicine. When she’d run away from him, enlisting Beatrice Sutherland’s help, she had made him wait in an agony of suspense, wondering if she dared to expose him and his crimes to all of society. He knew she’d suspected his efforts to accuse Richard Albert Sutherland of treason and to arrange his father’s death over the succeeding months. He knew she could ruin his future by going to the authorities. But she hadn’t done that. She’d bided her time, tacitly threatening him with the powerful knowledge she had gained. The wait alone had been far more hellish than a quick arrest. She’d kept him wriggling on the end of a hook. Day after day, he’d waited for the jerk on the line that would signal his doom.
It wasn’t until later, much later, that he’d realized she’d been impotent. She couldn’t oppose him. Although she suspected he’d supplanted the original Sutherland heirs, she had no proof of his deeds but her own word. Her word would mean nothing as long as Nigel held the painting. A portrait of a wanton staring with obvious love from the two-dimensional canvas. Who would believe her if she accused him? A woman obviously scorned.
For the first time in weeks, Nigel laughed. A low, delighted chuckle that startled his mount, simply because it was so rare a sound. Feeling nearly jovial after his discovery, Nigel began to whistle.
It had been a long time since he had gone fishing. Luckily for him, he knew just what to use for bait.
Chapter 11
Sullivan leaned back in his seat and eyed his governess down the long length of the dining-room table. On the opposite end, nearly twenty feet away, Chelsea Wickersham finished her supper.
It was her. He hadn’t been dreaming.
Sullivan lifted his spoon and tapped it idly against the damask cloth, staring at his companion with ever-growing glee. The visionary temptress who had lingered on the fringes of his consciousness ever since he had awakened at Bellemoore had not been a figment of his imagination. She was his governess. Miss Chelsea Wickersham.
He wanted to crow in triumph at the very idea. Who would have thought someone so alluring could be his own Miss Wickersham, governess extraordinaire? He was quite sure that if she knew he’d divined her secret, she would be mortified. After all, he’d seen her adorned in little more than her undergarments and the wild tumble of her hair. He didn’t think that particular state of attire appeared in the Handbook of English Educational Etiquette.
Since he had uncovered the knowledge of her indiscretion, Sullivan didn’t know exactly how he planned to use it. Perhaps in the future, he could employ the information to demonstrate his own unsuitability as a peer of the realm. After all, why would they want to trust a man who would seduce his very own governess?
In the meantime, the secret colored their relationship in a subtle, inexplicable way. It made him see her in a totally new light. Not as his teacher, but as a woman.
Chelsea lowered an earthenware mug and blotted her lips with a napkin. Looking up, she found him watching her over the branch of candles.
Neither of them moved. The air around them grew rich and warm.
Earlier that evening, she had come to fetch him from the nursery, surprising Sullivan by treating him more as a guest than a pupil. She had ushered him down to this room and had shown him to the far end of the table, where an elaborate place setting of crystal, china, and silver had been laid. After quietly naming each of the pieces, she had retreated to her own seat, where a cruder set of pottery dishes awaited.
They had dined upon simple fare—leek soup to begin with, an entree of boiled potatoes, lamb, baby peas, and thick crusty bread, and finally a sliver of custard pie. Sullivan had purposely used all of the wrong forks and even his fingers, but Chelsea had not seemed inclined to chide. They had continued the meal without interruption. A portly man—whom Sullivan surmised had been the mysterious Smee who had donated the clothing Sullivan wore—served each course with the flair of a master chef serving a gourmet feast.
Through it all, Sullivan studied his teacher. The gilded halo of light diffused from the center of the table caressed her cheeks and brought out the fiery highlights in her hair, but she remained unaware of the picture she made. She was poised, quiet, and dignified. A lethal paradox when that excruciatingly proper demeanor was compared to the woman of passion he’d seen in his arms earlier that day.
In honor of the meal, she had abandoned her apron; but she still wore a discreet gray gown beneath. Her only adornment was a simple onyx brooch fastened at her throat. Not even a shred of lace or braid softened the line of her bodice. Her hair had been combed back from her face and fastened at the nape of her neck with innumerable unobtrusive hairpins.
If his mind was correct in insisting that she had stood before him in her underthings, how many of the other hazy memories were true, and how many were the product of the drugs he’d been given? He remembered only bits and pieces. The stroke of light on feminine skin, music, a kiss … and a fleeting caress. A delicate touch like butterflies winging their way down his chest.
“Are you finished?”
With some difficulty, Sullivan brought his mind back to the present.
“I hope you enjoyed your supper. It’s good to see you eating your fill. Don’t be afraid to ask for more if you’re hungry.”
She couldn’t know what interpretation he applied to her last remark as the intimacy of the room filtered into the corners and warmed the air they breathed. The French windows had been opened to catch a breeze. The soughing of the garden foliage and the grate of the crickets provided a lulling serenade that invited thoughts of bedtime and quiet nights.
But Sullivan was far from sleepy.
Chelsea reached for her mug, toyed with the handle, then abandoned it again without drinking. “Come with me, Richard. I think there’s something you should see.”
She didn’t wait to ascertain whether or not Sullivan had understood her request, but took the candelabra from the table and disappeared. He was too intrigued to press his charade. Rising, he followed her through the rooms which were arranged gunshot fashion—butted back to back with no hall—into the foyer, then to another set of double doors.
“I’ve learned a great deal about your family in the last few years. Biddy has a wealth of stories to tell and delights in finding a new audience. I sometimes think I belong to them as much as you do. This was your grandfather’s studio,” she explained, her voiced hushed, nearly reverent. “He fancied himself a bit of a painter, although he never tried to sell any of his work. It was merely a means of relaxing from the pressures of his businesses. Perhaps that is why your father took up painting during his exile. He must have learned some of the rudiments from Albert.”
Turning the brass knob, she ushered him inside a huge area that smelled of lemon oil and roses. The candles shed a weak, buttery wash around them, but the rest of the studio basked in sooty darkness.
“This was once a lovely spot filled with settees and velvet carpets, but most of the furnishings have been sold. Luckily, we were able to keep a desk and chair. I placed those in the center of the room since this is where we will have your lessons.” She repeated, “Les-sons.”
He didn’t speak, but he absorbed the earnest cast of her face and the warmth of her skin on his own. He wondered if she were aware of the way her thumb swept back and forth against his wrist in a manner that was more in keeping with a lover than a teacher.
“Come.” Twining her fingers between his, much as he had earlier that afternoon, she led him to the side wall. “I want you to meet your family. Perhaps by seeing them, you will see something that might jar you into remembering who you truly are.”
She stopped in front of a long line of portraits, and Sullivan immediately understood her intent.
“Originally, your grandfather’s paintings were hung here, and these were housed in the portrait gallery at Lindon Hall, one of the family estates in London. But when your grandmother was forced out of her home, she managed to secrete these away. Nigel, your cousin and the man who inherited the title, planned to sell them. Imagine. Selling your own people.”
Chelsea’s voice trailed away on a note of sadness, the emotion so tangible that Sullivan wondered what could have caused her to feel so deeply for a dozen painted strangers.
Lifting the candles, she drew him closer. She spoke in a confidential tone, one used with foreigners, knowing they understood only a fragment of what was said, yet expressing everything that came to mind nonetheless. Sullivan sensed that because she didn’t think he comprehended most of her remarks, she was more inclined to be honest in the information she gave him.
“This is Roland Sutherland, one of the first portraits to be commissioned. He was a great naval hero during the rein of Queen Elizabeth, and it is from him that you received your title. Next to him is his wife, Lucille.”
Sullivan eyed the couple with a scant amount of interest, noting the starched ruffs and elaborate clothing. The oiled patina of the portrait clouded the features of the couple who stood beside a marble pillar. The yellowed effect served only to make them seem even more indistinct and forbidding.
Chelsea led him toward the next picture. “Lubeck Christopher Sutherland. He lived during the latter part of the seventeenth century. He is credited with building the main wing of Lin
don Manor and siring fourteen children—only three of whom survived their infancy. His wife, Nan, is the subject of the next painting.”
Lubeck stared from the canvas, a devilish grin slashing over his features. But Nan, poor Nan. Even though the artist had not been incredibly skilled in proportion and perspective, Sullivan could also see a weary pain.
“This is Corbet Sutherland, black sheep of the family. Late in the previous century, he journeyed to the colonies and fought against England during their rebellion. Biddy—your grandmother—told me once that when the family discovered his activities, the painting was nearly burned along with the rest of his belongings. Luckily, it was salvaged by his elder sister, Marjoram. If you peer at it closely”—she bent and squinted at the lower corner—“you can see the scorch marks.”
Sullivan had already noted the marks. He didn’t really need to bend to see them, but by doing so he could smell the clean freshness of Chelsea’s hair. The faint scent that clung to the tresses revealed that she must rinse it in lilac water after scrubbing it clean with some other perfumed soap.
Sensing his close proximity, Chelsea straightened and continued down the line. “This is Annabeline Stark, your … great-great-grandmother, I believe.”
Sullivan noted the stern, sour-faced woman who had left beauty behind at birth.
“This is your namesake, Richard Albert Sutherland, fourth Earl of Lindon.”
Prepared to notice it politely and move on, Sullivan was struck by a strange sense of recognition. There was something about the handsome man who posed on the back of a gray stallion that was familiar. Perhaps the arrogant tilt to his chin. Hadn’t Sullivan seen it on Rupert often enough?
No. His father.
Emotions stirred within him like a phoenix shifting amid the ashes. Half-buried memories flashed like quicksilver, then were gone before they could be grasped.
“There is no true portrait of his wife, Lucrece. She posed for a painting soon after their marriage, but since she became enceinte shortly thereafter, she refused to continue sitting for the artist until the child was born. Several hours after delivering a fine, healthy son, she died. Richard Albert Sutherland was so distraught that he ordered the painting to be completed anyway.