Daughter of Darkness

by Janet Woods

  ‘It’s a Sheronwood stallion. It escaped when the horses were sold and the poor beast has been running wild. I brought it in just a few days ago.’ Brian gave him a knowing look. ‘To be sure, he would make a fitting mate for Circe.’

  ‘She’s not produced a foal yet?’ He glanced at Circe, who was watching proceedings from her stall.

  ‘She’s a proud creature, sir.’ He chuckled. ‘She’s too spirited for old Fury. Last time he tried to cover her she nigh on bit his ear off.’

  Gerard grinned. Despite its thinness, the stallion’s Arab blood was evident in its lines and movement. ‘A Sheronwood stallion, you say?’

  ‘The agent in Dorchester has the papers,’ Brian offered, exchanging a glance of mutual understanding with his master. ‘The Sheronwood stable was sold at market. I should imagine he’d accept any offer just to get his books in order.’ He led the stallion into a stall. ‘Circe will be coming into season again shortly, sir.’

  ‘You don’t need to convince me any further. I’ll ride in to Dorchester and see the agent now.’ Mounting his horse, he smiled at the stable boy. ‘You ride Circe well.’

  ‘Circe?’ The boy scratched his head and appeared puzzled.

  ‘I thought I saw you riding the mare on my return to Lytton House?’

  ‘No My Lord. None but Brian O’Shea and— ‘

  His gelding gave a high-pitched whinny when Brian knocked over a metal pail. It danced nervously under him.

  ‘Sorry, My Lord,’ Brian muttered when he managed to get the surging beast under control. ‘He’s skittish this morning. He needs a good run after being rested yesterday.’

  Gerard said nothing more, but his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he urged his mount into a walk and headed off. The groom had deliberately kicked the pail over. But why would he want to shut the stable boy up? Did it matter who exercised Circe?

  The landscape was white with frost, the trees stark shapes against a grey sky. Snow lightly powdered the ground and swirled about him. He forgot about Circe as the pleasure of being home drifted into thoughts of his childhood. The estate had a sense of timelessly about it. His father had shaped him for stewardship of the land since childhood, involving him in the day to day events so it would come to him naturally. Then, it had seemed a long way off. Now it was almost upon him, he felt unprepared.

  The earldom was not about position or power. It was about responsibility. He would be the keeper of the land for future generations. It was up to him whether it survived into the future. He was not blessed with the patience of his father, but perhaps that was all to the good.

  He chuckled when a bird attempted to land on the frozen lake and skittered, squawking with fright, across its surface. When Jeffrey had been small he’d taught him to slide along its frozen edge. In the summer they’d built a raft and played at being pirates.

  Once, his mother and a guest had discovered them naked. He’d been sixteen, Jeffrey six. Their father had been in London on business. He’d been teaching his brother to swim.

  There had been a haze just above the surface of the lake. Dragonflies had danced across the water, their iridescent wings flashing like jewels. He’d made a cave in the reeds to hide them from prying eyes but the sound of their laughter had given them away. The magic of that day had been brought abruptly to a halt when… ?

  The guest had been Marquis Lynchcross! He frowned. Odd that he should suddenly remembered the unpleasant memory of that day.

  He thought he’d eradicated from his mind the way the marquis had looked upon his naked body and the shame of being seen thus by his mother. The marquis had flicked his hastily snatched up clothes aside. Left with only his hands to cover himself—the man’s laughter had been doubly humiliating.

  His mother had said nothing at the time. That in itself had given him a sense of betrayal. Upon her return, she’d called him into the drawing room and made him promise not to tell his father about marquis being on the estate. She’d bought his silence with a gold piece to spend on a saddle he’d coveted. His mother hadn’t often had much time for her children, and her anguish had caused dubiety in him even then.

  He spurred his mount into a canter as if to leave the sour taste of the memory behind, but niggling thoughts lingered on. She’d given birth to his sister the following May, rejecting the deformed child as would a cat the runt of the litter.

  As he tried to recall the face of the child all that came to mind was the sneering face of the marquis.

  The face haunted him as his mount’s hoofs covered the miles into Dorchester. It wasn’t until his deal was satisfactorily concluded and he was halfway home, that an ugly suspicion took root. His dislike for the marquis grew into loathing. To make matters worse, his children would carry the legacy of Lynchcross blood. He understood Willow was not responsible for her father’s transgressions, was in fact a victim of them. Yet the thought was repugnant to him.

  And what of her mother? Marietta Givanchy was supposed to have died shortly after giving birth to Willow. Rumor remained about her ungodly practices. If Willow had inherited her traits, would their children be afflicted by strangeness? He cast his uneasy thoughts aside when the snow began to fall in earnest, spurring his mount forward. The way before him was hardly visible, so he stuck to the safety of the road.

  He was nearing the gates to Lytton House, and he cursed when a figure stumbled in front of him, causing his horse to rear in fright. Bringing it under control, he slid from its back when he saw the predicament the young black maid was in. A coach had slid on a patch of ice, coming to rest on its side in a ditch. Of the horses and driver there was no sign.

  ‘Where’s your driver?’

  The maid indicated she was dumb, and wrote upon the snow with a stick. Taken the horses. Gone for help these past four hours?’

  To the nearest inn, no doubt, Gerard thought sourly, as the maid applied her stick once more to the snow. He gazed sharply at her. ‘Your mistress is ill with cold, and you fear she’ll perish?’

  The girl’s head bobbed frantically up and down.

  Frozen to the bone himself, he took a brandy flask from his pocket and glanced at the black-veiled figure visible against the cushions. He had no choice but to offer them hospitality. ‘Give some of this to your mistress, and take a nip yourself. If you support her on my horse I’ll help you to shelter.’

  A short while later the woman and her maid were being attended to by Willow in one of the guest rooms.

  ‘You were lucky my husband came that way,’ she said, trying not to stare at the black girl. Her eyes fell on the veiled woman who was unconscious with cold. ‘The maids will be here shortly with warming pans for your mistress’s bed. The fire will soon heat the room, and I’ll send up some broth.’ Her eyes strove to see through the veil and failed. ‘Acquaint me with your mistresses name, girl.’

  The girl took her hand and traced letters in her palm. ‘It is Sapphire, My Lady. I am Bella.’

  ‘Sapphire!’ A thrill of pleasurable unease ran through Willow. ‘I’ve heard tell of her. A most celebrated name in London, I believe?’

  Bella’s smile was warm as she regarded the mistress of the house. Her eyes rivaled those of Sapphire. Softer and more innocent, they had just a hint of mischief.

  ‘Your slippers are wet, Bella,’ she said. ‘We look to be about the same size. I’ll send my maid with a dry pair. You need not return them.’

  ‘But I could not, My Lady,’ Bella wrote upon her palm, aghast at the thought that the mistress of the house would be so generous. ‘It would not be seemly.’

  She smiled. ‘Then we’ll keep it a secret.’ Having supervised lifting Sapphire into the bed, Willow couldn’t contain her curiosity any longer. ‘Why does your mistress wear a veil?’

  Bella’s smile faded as her mistress groaned. Anxiously, she bent over her.

  ‘Where are we, Bella?’ Even in her distressed state, the woman’ s voice was softly melodious, containing traces of a French accent.

  Willow answer
ed for Bella. ‘You’re safe at Lytton House.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Lady Sommersley. My father-in-law is the Earl of Lytton.’

  She had the uncomfortable feeling she was being thoroughly scrutinized. Then the woman half sat up, whispering faintly. ‘I’m acquainted with Ambrose Lytton. I have heard he’s at death’s door.’

  ‘Death cannot claim him yet,’ she said vehemently. ‘I’ve made a bargain with God.’

  Under the veil, Sapphire’s eyes glistened with tears. She saw before her the one person she’d never imagined to see again, the child she’d born those many years ago. Beauty and goodness, spun a cloak of protective light around her. My daughter is blessed with the gift of love, she thought. It will encompass all who seek it, and sustain them through life. She began to wonder if she’d been wise to follow the dark side of her heart. Perhaps she should never have come here.

  Giving a groan of despair she closed her eyes. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Lady Sommersley. I beg you, leave me to my maid now, for I am tired.’

  ‘Of course.’

  The concern in her voice nearly drove Sapphire to tears. Her own dear daughter, after all this time. She could never reveal herself. Hearing her slippered feet whisper towards the door she experienced a strong urge to call her back and embrace her, like any normal mother. But she wasn’t normal, and had to deny her impulse.

  Later, when she was warm and rested, and the firelight glowed comfortingly on the red and gold embossed walls, Sapphire had Bella bring her crystal. Its depths revealed two paths. Sapphire experienced fear. One path led downhill into darkness, the other upwards into light. The light gave her pain, and the way was strewn with obstacles. Instinctively, she knew which path she must take. With a cry of despair, she buried her face in her hands and wept.

  ‘Will my husband find me desirable, Kitty?’

  Already Willow had prevaricated too long. Kitty had arranged to meet Brian O’Shea, and would be late if she didn’t go soon. She tried to keep the impatience from her voice. ‘If he doesn’t, there must be something wrong with him.’

  Willow’s filmy chemise was edged with pink taffeta ribbons fashioned into rosebuds. Over it, she wore a robe of pale pink velvet edged with white fur. Her hair hung in shining dark ripples to her waist. Held back by two thin braids threaded with rosebuds, they were tied at the nape of her neck with a pink ribbon. She was trembling.

  Kitty suddenly felt sorry for her. She couldn’t imagine being touched by a man she hardly knew and didn’t love. She did her best to allay her mistress’s fears, blushing as she confessed. ‘It’s not so bad. Me and Brian—ouch!

  ‘How dare you talk to me of such matters, Kitty Adams!’ Willow hadn’t meant to slap her, but not only had her maid’s words shocked her, they’d mockingly reminded her of her intact state.

  Her voice softened when tears filled Kitty’s eyes. ‘I’ll ask the earl’s permission for you to marry. I’d not wish to see you unwed and with child.’

  Kitty’s mouth tightened. Willow had never slapped her before. The reminder of her status came as a shock. It was obvious that the free and easy relationship they’d enjoyed in the past had come to an end. She bobbed a resentful curtsy. ‘Thank you, My Lady.’

  The spat served to stiffen Willow’s resolve. If Kitty had survived the ordeal of being bedded, then so would she. Taking comfort in the fact that Gerard was far superior in looks and breeding than Brian could ever be, she took up her candle and headed confidently towards the door. ‘You may retire,’ she called over her shoulder to Kitty as she left. ‘I do not expect to return tonight.’

  As soon as the door closed behind her, Kitty drew a cloak around her shoulders and headed down the servant’s stairs. She had no intention of sleeping in draughty, haunted isolation.

  The candle fluttered from face to face as Willow made her way along the gallery of Lyttons. It appeared as if the eyes of each were watching her. The men’s eyes seemed lascivious, the women’ s, faintly malicious. She stopped in front of the fourth earl. The portrait showed him in a different light to the one in the study. Here, he had a steady intellectual gaze, and a mouth curving upwards in a gentle smile. His eyes were grey, his nose rather large and hooked, and his lean face had an aesthetic quality. She couldn’t imagine him being as fierce as he looked in the picture in the study. He bore a striking resemblance to her husband.

  Nerves fluttered in her midriff. ‘If a son comes of this night,’ she whispered, ‘I’ll give him your name as well as that of his father and grandfather. He shall be Radford, Ambrose, Gerard.’

  Having said that, her mind returned to the begetting of that son and prickles quivered along her spine. Taking a deep breath she continued towards her husband’s bedchamber. Like everything unpleasant in life, it was best to get it over and done with.

  Rodgers had been dismissed for the night. Clad only in breeches, his shirt open to the waist, Gerard sprawled on his back across his bed. The warmth of the room had made him pleasantly drowsy, and he’d discarded the book he’d been poring over. Life possessed a certain continuity at Lytton, he was thinking. Despite the current shortage of staff the house was run well and the atmosphere happier than he’d ever known it.

  His father had the best of care. The earl’s bodily comfort was taken care of by John Grey, who lifted him as easily as if he were a baby. His sustenance was managed by Willow, who alternatively coaxed then scolded his father into swallowing just one more mouthful.

  They’d dined together in his father’s room this evening, with Jeffrey—still smarting at losing Willow’s exclusive attention—silent. After she’d excused herself he’d challenged Jeffrey to a game of cards, allowing him to win a gold piece. Throwing the money in the air, Jeffrey had crowed with youthful triumph, his sulks banished.

  Choosing that moment to glance at his father, Gerard surprised an expression of pleasure in the man’s eyes. He realized then that his father’s mental faculties had remained unimpaired. Willow seemed to have an instinct about these matters. He resolved to listen to her more carefully in the future.

  He was about to resume his reading when the door to his bedchamber creaked open. He relaxed when he saw who it was, and through lowered lids gazed with enjoyment at the vision in white fur and pink rosebuds standing hesitantly in the doorway. What the devil was she doing here? His earlier reasoning came to his mind. She was here at his command. He’d determined to discover whether her innocence was soiled by her father’s debauched ways.

  Gerard resisted the urge to move. Staying perfectly still, he watch her through lowered lids, despising himself for doubting her yet compelled to discover the truth.The hand that held the candle trembled, ignoring her silent plea to be still. Her husband was sprawled across the bed, asleep. His chest rose and fell with an even rhythm.

  Tempted to leave straight away, curiosity caused Willow to creep closer and gaze down at him. His hands were thrown above his head, the palms curled upwards like autumn leaves. Asleep, he had a vulnerability that made her smile. Her perusal of him avoided the springy dark hair that peeped from the gap in his shirt. It disturbed her, as did his abandoned pose.

  Her cheeks warmed as she found her eyes were drawn to his body. The way he sprawled on his back caused every muscle and bulge to strain against the material covering them. Every time she looked away she was drawn back, and each look she took made her feel a little weaker—as if she were bewitched.

  Torn between relief and irritation at finding him asleep, Willow was in a quandary. What did one do in such circumstances? Would her husband expect her to waken him? The thought made her quake. The immodesty of such an act would most surely displease him. Then an idea occurred to her. ‘I have no experience to guide me in matters such as this,’ she whispered, tearing a pink ribbon from her chemise. ‘Perhaps you’ll not recall summoning me to your bed. If you do, I’d not have you think I disobeyed you.’

  What the devil was she about? Stifling an elated rush of amusement, Gerard wanted t
o laugh out loud. She was as innocent as a newly born lamb. A woman of experience would have wakened him, not stood there blushing and trembling. Now she was leaving her calling card, a pink ribbon looped over his toe.

  Tender feelings rioted through his chest. Her fear was almost tangible. She had guts, he’d grant her that. She’d come to his command despite not knowing what to expect—or at the least—expecting to be violated in a most painful manner. She had reason to be afraid. He’d heard men boast of the sport their virginal brides provided, and no doubt women related their experiences to one another. She need not worry. He intended to treat her most gently. When she grew used to his attention he’d teach her ways of pleasuring guaranteed to satisfy them both. Unexpectedly, his body experienced a swift arousal.

  His grunt of annoyance brought a swift, fearful intake of breath from Willow. She hadn’t meant to flee. She’d seen his body change and experienced disgust. Not for her husband. Gerard was a man of undoubted refinement, and not responsible for the ways of a man’s body.

  Her disgust stemmed from the desire to reach out, to take the swelling core of him between her hands and experience the changes in him. Added to this, was a shameful feeling inside her that caused a flush of damp heat between her thighs. Her thoughts had been improper, and, as a result, her body suffered from lust. Both were a sin, if the sermons she’d listened to as a child were to be believed.

  The noise he’ d made had broken her tightly stretched nerves. Snatching up her candle she’d run from the room, reaching her quarters with a rapidly beating heart.

  ‘Kitty?’ The fire was almost out and the room freezing. ‘Damn the girl! She should have built up the fire before she retired.’

  Temper rising, she stalked into Kitty’s room to rouse her. The bed was empty. She was visiting Brian, no doubt. Drawing her robe around her, she shivered as she experienced the discomfort of abandonment. Miserably, she returned to her chamber, creeping under the covers of her bed.