Anna had been struggling to keep her manner light; to reflect her newlywed hostess’s conspicuous happiness, rather than douse it with her own dark mood. But this remark drew a genuine, amused laugh from her. “Indeed. They could not be more different.”
Too late, she feared that her retort would be taken as rudeness. But Emma relieved her by smiling.
“Thank goodness for that. I had begun to wonder if my brush was limited to gray scales.”
A proverbial gray scale, Anna assumed. Emma’s earlier paintings had not spared the viewer from vivid rivers of blood.
“Well, those fears should be laid to rest now.” The flowers were so lifelike that she found herself taking a deep breath, in search of their perfume. “This painting could not be more lovely.”
“But is it good?” Fretfully, the duchess sat on a nearby stool. “That is what concerns me most. You know that Liam—” She flushed. “Forgive me, I hope you don’t mind the informality.”
“Not in the least.” But it had drawn claws through Anna’s gut earlier to watch her husband greet Emma with such apparent and uncomplicated pleasure. A strange poisonous brew of jealousy and despair had coursed through her then. She did not know if she could ever hope to receive such looks from him.
“Liam wishes to mount another show,” Emma explained. “For the little season, he says, in December. I told him it was too soon—that I couldn’t be sure I would maintain this pace.” She laughed. “Happiness—a novel inspiration! I can’t trust it just yet. But he insists. And as you’ll know, one rarely wins an argument with him.”
“Yes,” Anna murmured. “He is certainly headstrong.”
Now that he had decided to entomb himself within his mask, he would not be persuaded or harangued to alter his course. She did not think she had seen his true face since the day of the lecture. He was slipping away to a place she had no skill to reach. Her own panic was strangling her.
She realized that Emma was studying her, those artist’s eyes, a strange smoky blue, too perceptive for her comfort.
“I had wondered what kind of woman would be married to Lord Lockwood,” the duchess said. “I was very curious to meet you again.”
Anna managed a smile. “And do I meet your expectations?”
But Emma did not return the smile. “I don’t know if Liam ever told you what he did for me. I was very alone when we met. Hiding from the world. He forced me out into it. He persuaded me to believe in my talent, to believe these awful things I had committed to canvas should—must—be seen. And because he showed me a way into the world, I found Julian again.” She took an audible breath. “So you see, I’m in great debt to him.”
Anna hesitated, uncertain how to reply. “I believe he feels the debt is all his. He thinks the world of your talent. He has always had an eye for genius, but your work—”
“Genius!” Emma pulled a face. “Who knows about that? What he had an eye for, I think, was a fellow survivor.” She glanced at the painting, looking pensive. “And enough courage to spare me some of his, when I most needed it.”
Anna swallowed hard. How was it that all the world saw Liam’s courage, his strength and his worth, save he? “You should tell him so. He . . .” She did not want to violate his confidence. But a gut-deep instinct told her that a crisis was upon them. He refused to touch her. They barely spoke. He moved through his own house like a ghost, and when she found him looking at her, he wore an odd expression, remote, as though she were already a memory, lost to him for good. “He would profit by hearing your view of him,” she said hoarsely. “Please do tell him.”
Emma rose from the stool. “Then I will do. But . . .” Her hand came gently to rest on Anna’s arm. “Why are you crying?”
“Am I?” Appalled, Anna dashed her hand over her eyes. “Goodness.” She turned back to the painting, this bright promise that even misfortunes could be beautiful, and tried to compose herself. “Forgive me, I suppose it’s your art that moves me—”
“Gammon.”
She bit her tongue. The silence extended, becoming conspicuous, uncomfortable. She did not know this woman. She could not unburden herself, and her wits felt too sluggish to compose an excuse for her distress. “Shall we join the others?” she asked at last as she turned.
But Emma stood in her path and did not step aside. “I care for him,” she said quietly. “And from the start, I have seen the unhappiness in him. Tell me what I might do to help.”
“You can’t.” The words ripped from her, lent force by her miserable conviction. “He thinks—” Oh, God forgive her. “He thinks his brain is deranged somehow. He was abused, terribly, and he feels he is broken by it, with no hope of healing.”
“Ah.”
This calm reply, paired with a thoughtful nod, quite disconcerted Anna. And then it angered her. “He is wrong, and if you believe otherwise—”
“Of course he’s wrong,” Emma cut in evenly. “But—shall we dispense with formalities and speak bluntly? Julian told me what happened to him. The broad facts, at least. The kind of violence he survived . . . it leaves marks. It does damage a person. One cannot ever forget what happened, or return to how one was beforehand. But that doesn’t mean healing is impossible, or happiness unreachable. Even if one feels unworthy of it—it comes like a gift, if one allows it to approach.”
Fine words. Anna had tried to tell him much the same. “He won’t believe it.”
“With time—”
“He has episodes.” She blurted it out. “Moments in which he panics, beyond all proportion. His body fails him. And he blames himself for it. He thinks himself broken.”
“Yes.” Emma glanced toward a set of crates, still unopened. “All of those”—she waved toward them—“were painted in such states. I don’t remember creating half of them.”
Anna felt staggered. She sat down on the stool. “You had such fits?”
“Perhaps not identical to his. But similar enough to recognize the shape of what you describe.” Emma sighed. “Doctors might not agree . . . but I have come to believe that the body remembers grave danger long after it has passed. Strange things, small things, can persuade the body to respond as though one were still in peril.”
She did sound as though she understood intimately what Liam endured.
“But . . .” Anna glanced back to the scene of the flower basket, upended—and Emma, following her look, laughed softly.
“Oh, I remember painting that one,” she said. “How I cursed when trying to blend that shade of violet! The terrors passed, Anna. They lost their grip on me.” Perhaps Anna looked doubtful, for the other woman took her hand. “They were terrible, yes. The doctors could not help me. But then they began to fade.” Her grip tightened. “Since the time when Liam persuaded me to put those paintings in the light, I have never had a terror again.”
“But he does not paint,” Anna whispered. “And I don’t know . . .” True justice would help. The thought of Stephen Devaliant bloodied her vision. Oh, Liam would have his justice, she would see to that. But would that be enough to enact an exorcism?
“In such moments,” Emma said quietly, “when the terror is upon him—what do you feel?”
The question startled her. She pulled her hand free. “What does it matter what I feel?” She scoffed. “If you imagine he turns to me for comfort—”
“No. He wouldn’t. One feels unable to look for help. But I will tell you another fear I had—above and beyond the terrors.” Her face open and calm, Emma waited until Anna met her eyes. “I feared that Julian would see me in such a state, and it would replace all else he’d known of me. That he would look at me and see only the darkness in me.”
“I would never judge Liam so,” Anna said through her teeth.
“No. You love him. You would never judge him so. But he doesn’t know that. He fears you have no idea who he truly is, and if you were to find out—”
“Rubbish. I know him better than anyone alive.”
“Are you certain?” Emma pa
used. “He’s a consummate actor. I have seen him wear a dozen faces in one evening, depending on what was required.”
“And I cherish all of them, if they are what he requires. But his true face”—she swallowed—“is mine. The one he has shown to me . . .” On the cliff side on Ben Nevis. In the great hall at Rawsey. In his bedroom, the night she had forced him to strip. “He is mine,” she said in a hushed, raw voice. “And all his faces, too. And his changes. And his scars. And his true face, which I know in my heart.”
“Then be his mirror,” Emma murmured. “He loves you, I think. Otherwise he would have smiled at you below as easily as he smiled at me. For you alone, his mask threatens to crumble. But if he forgets what lies beneath it, then show him that truth. And never let him turn away from it.”
Anna felt abruptly dizzied. So often she fancied herself the sharpest wit in the room. But this woman radiated a serenity and wisdom that she could not find in herself. All at once, she was desperate to believe in it.
“I pray you are right,” she whispered. “I won’t let him turn away anymore.”
Emma looked musingly down at her. “I have not long been a grand lady,” she said, “so I hope you’ll permit me this.” Without further ceremony, she pulled Anna up into a hug.
• • •
Anna did not believe in witchcraft. But five minutes after unburdening herself of her fears, she and Emma rejoined the men’s company and found the mood transformed. The Duke of Auburn caught his new wife at the door and twirled her in his arms; and as though he had not spent almost a week withholding himself, Liam greeted Anna with a kiss, and then escorted her into dinner with charm and jokes.
Remembering Emma’s advice, Anna decided not to question the sea change but to be thankful for it. And so the evening passed delightfully, with good conversation and exquisite French cooking, and plans for supper again next week, this time out of doors, on Auburn’s yacht harbored near Greenwich. It was past midnight by the time she and Liam boarded the carriage for the drive home, but it still seemed that they had left too soon.
Indeed, as the coach pulled away from the lamplit curb, casting them into the darkness of late evening, Anna found herself suddenly prickling with superstition—holding her breath, lest the shadows put an end to that warm and celebratory atmosphere that had grown up between them in the Auburns’ house.
As though he sensed it, Liam moved off his bench and came to sit beside her. “Cold?” he asked, and did not wait for her answer before tucking the lap robe more closely around her.
Laughing, she shoved off the blanket. “If I’m cold now, then heaven help me when I go back to Scotland. These southern climes will make me soft.”
“Oh, that cold is bred into your blood, I expect. English winds may chill you—but a good Scottish squall will bring you alive.”
She smiled at him, his silhouette amid the deeper darkness, for his fanciful theory charmed her. “The cold does seem different here. Sharper, but less damp. I expect the winters are quite pleasant.”
She caught the shine of his eyes as he gently touched her cheek. “And what of a winter in France?”
“France?”
“That honeymoon we’d planned. Better late than never, don’t you think? We could reach Paris by the end of July. Remain there through October, then slowly wend our way south to Naples.”
Her breath caught. Here was what she’d been waiting for—mention of the future, a future to be spent together. She found herself gripping his hand, holding it in place against her cheek. “Yes,” she whispered. “I would like that very much. I still remember—you wanted to show me the Rubens collection in the Louvre, the painting of the two ladies . . .”
“Well, I’ve a soft spot for a man who admires redheads.” His voice was husky, tender with amusement. “But there is more to France than Paris and portraits. We might pay a call on Monsieur Boussingault, who would be very glad, I think, to hear all your tales of ammonia and nitrogen.”
She laughed, a sound that struck her belatedly as both giddy and incredulous.
Feeling as though she were coming awake from some beautiful dream, she said, “What has changed, Liam?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your mood, all this week . . . But now, suddenly, you’re full of good cheer and plans—”
“Ah. Yes, that.” In the darkness, suddenly he was kissing her, a deep and languorous and drugging kiss that lasted long enough to scatter her wits entirely and leave her somewhat forgetful of the subject when he at last lifted his head and continued. “I have been dwelling on the past, haven’t I? The past that cannot be changed. But many things still remain in my power. I am no longer constrained. It was my mistake to feel otherwise.”
“Of course,” she said. “But . . .” She hesitated, not wanting to risk ruining his happy mood with another question.
Yet what kind of marriage would they have if she felt constantly compelled to guard her tongue lest his temper sour?
She needed to understand him. Emma had advised patience. But patience and probing could go hand in hand. “What made you realize it?” she asked.
“You,” he said. “You left the drawing room and took the light with you. Next time, I mean to follow.”
She bit down on a happy sigh—amused and a little unnerved by how easily she was flattered. His answer explained nothing, though. “Gammon. Tell me truly what—”
His mouth came against hers again. “Truly, Anna,” he said very softly into her lips. “You carry the light with you.” His hand slid delicately through her hair, his mouth moving to her ear as he murmured, “Of course, the sun would continue to burn if the planets fell away. But without the sun, the planets would be lost. And I would be a fool to abandon that orbit.”
Some vague uneasiness stirred in her belly, at odds with the warmth of her blush. These words, though romantic, did not sound like him. She gently laid her hand across the firm curve of his skull, testing the softness of his hair. Poetry wasn’t what she most wanted from him. “I know you’ve had trouble,” she said. “But whatever you feel, Liam . . .”
His lips drew a lazy circle on the sensitive spot beneath her ear, and she had to take a long breath before her next words would assemble.
“However dark your moods turn,” she pushed on, “I wish to know them. To see them. All of you is precious to me. I know you don’t believe this, for you see yourself so differently than I see you.” When she remembered how he had spoken of himself, that dreadful day when he’d told her the whole of it, she shuddered to imagine how he saw himself. “You have no clear view—”
“Enough,” he said gently. “There’s no need for this.”
But she would not be silenced. She pulled away to look at him squarely. “But I see you clearly. More than that—I also see myself clearly, in your company. You fear somehow to fail me, but I tell you, you can’t. You are—such a wonder to me, Liam. Such a gift. Never in my life have I felt more myself than when I’m with you. And when you tell me to go back to Rawsey—”
“Anna, I shouldn’t have—”
“No, listen. The only time I was ever tempted was the day you woke from your fever, when you stormed out and I feared you would never come home again. Then, I longed for Rawsey. And it made me realize—why, Rawsey isn’t simply a home for me. It’s where I’ve always gone, I think, to hide.”
He stared at her, his expression lost in the dark. He seemed, at least, to be listening.
She took his hand, twining their fingers together. “I told myself I was free,” she said softly. “Freer than any woman alive. My birth, my title, my fortune—and then this odd marriage I’d proposed to you, they guaranteed that freedom. But a free woman doesn’t require a hiding place.” She cleared her throat and forced out the next words, these solid weights now lodged on her heart, for they must be spoken. “I should have searched for you, Liam.”
He recoiled. “No. Don’t—”
But she tightened her grip, holding on to him. “From the v
ery moment you disappeared, I should have raised the alarm. I will never forgive myself for that.”
“Stop.” His hand turned in hers, crushing her fingers. “Let that go. It was not your fault. None of it was your fault.”
“But it was. Don’t you see?” She blinked hard against the prick of tears. “I was accustomed to being left. Being left was such a habit, a habitual humiliation, that I designed a marriage that would guarantee that I was left. Every term of that contract—I said that they were meant to preserve my freedom. But they weren’t. They were announcements, to you and the world and to me, that you would leave, and that when you did, it would be routine—expected—nothing to grieve or surprise me. After all, our marriage had not been designed to keep you. The contract proved it—it showed I didn’t expect or want otherwise.” She felt her mouth twist out of her control, and lifted their joined hands to her mouth, pressing her trembling lips against his knuckles until she felt able to continue. “But here’s the truth, Liam—it was a lie. A lie I constructed to protect my vanity, my pride. My heart. Before you’d even signed that contract—before I’d even finished declaring my terms—I knew I wanted you with me always. But I denied it to myself. I was a coward. So afraid of risking hurt. Of facing, again, the fact that I wasn’t enough. And so, yes—when you disappeared, I wasn’t brave. I’d been left again—and instead of asking where you’d gone, I castigated myself for even caring. And I fled to Rawsey then, to hide—from the world, and from myself. From this truth that my heart was broken.”
She heard his soft exhalation. “Anna—”
“I should have raised the alarm.” Tears clogged her voice. With her anger, her fury at herself, she pushed past the tears, spitting out her next words: “I should have searched for you. I should have demanded the authorities hunt for you, in every corner of the world. Instead, I hid, and said nothing, and I lied to myself, telling myself I did not care, did not mourn and miss you every minute of every day. I made myself let you go—and that is a mistake I will repent every day for the rest of my life.”
The Sins of Lord Lockwood Page 27
