In the past Beatrice had always been drawn to men exactly like her husband. Dreamers, each and every one, with manners as impeccable as their bloodlines. In short, the sort of men who were the exact opposite of Jack Emerson, which was why she could not understand the flare of attraction she felt towards him, nor the temptation to press against his body when she should have been pulling away.
Trapped between the two polarizing needs she remained motionless, a delicate bird who didn’t know whether to take flight or duck for cover.
Jack skimmed his thumb across her bottom lip, tracing the contours of her mouth while she stared up at him unblinkingly, her eyes two shimmering pools, pupils dilated with both anxiety and a growing passion she was trying desperately to suppress.
“I never claimed to be perfect,” he said in a voice gone dark and deep. When his fingers glanced along the side of her jaw and closed around the nape of her neck, sinking into unbound hair and tense muscle, Beatrice closed her eyes and barely managed to contain a moan.
When had a man ever touched her like this? Jeffrey had always been kind with his affections, but anything of an intimate nature had always been restrained to the bedroom. Even then he’d been rather practical about the whole affair. A kiss before the deed and a kiss after. He’d never lingered, and she’d always been left wondering if there was more.
More passion.
More pleasure.
More fire.
Now she had her answer, except by some cruel twist of fate the wrong man was supplying it. It should have been Jeffrey gently massaging her neck, not Jack. Jack was… Jack was wrong in so many ways. He was too rough. Too coarse. Too ill-mannered. And she was too starved for affection to think sensibly.
“S-stop,” she said, eyes snapping open. “Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?” he murmured huskily.
“Touching me!” Voice strained, she stiffened against his one-handed embrace. “Stop touching me.”
For once, Jack did as she asked. He stepped back abruptly, expression inscrutable, and Beatrice filled her lungs with much needed air. She leaned weakly against the doorframe, head sagging against her shoulder as she attempted to regain some semblance of control over her riotous emotions.
“You are a strange woman, Lady Tumbley,” Jack remarked, his gaze both coolly assessing and lightly mocking as it swept up and down her trembling frame.
Beatrice lifted her chin. “You do not know anything about me.”
“I know you are no longer crying.” He walked towards her and she flinched, but he turned his body to the side at the last moment and stepped through the doorway without so much as a passing touch.
Frozen in place, Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut and listened to his footsteps as he stalked across the foyer. The sharp staccato sound of his boot heels striking marble grew fainter and fainter until it faded away altogether, swallowed up by a mansion with too many rooms to keep track of… and far too many secrets to count.
CHAPTER SIX
It should have been impossible to lose track of a man in one’s own house, but that was precisely what Beatrice did. For the next three days she saw neither hide nor hair of Jack and would have thought him gone completely… if not for the curtains.
After waking on the fourth consecutive day to sunlight spilling unfiltered into her bedroom, Beatrice threw off the covers and stormed down the hall, nightgown swishing around her ankles in a pool of white. Enough was enough. She didn’t know how he was doing it, or why, but for some reason Jack seemed as determined to keep the curtains open as she was to keep them closed. And that was not the only thing he seemed determined to change.
For the past three days she’d found herself nearly tripping over one of the maids at every turn. They always had some platter of food with them, and no matter how many times she said she was not hungry, they insisted she eat. Since neither Sadie nor Anna had ever been concerned with her dining habits in the past, she knew Jack had something to do with it.
The man was more than infuriating. He was… he was… well, she couldn’t think of a word horrible enough to describe what he was, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was she’d lost control of her own household and she wasn’t going to stand for it.
Not anymore.
Not for a second longer.
Every uncovered window Beatrice passed on her way downstairs only served to feed the flames of anger that had been slowly simmering since the first morning she woke to find every single curtain in the entire manor pinned opened. Upon further investigation she’d quickly discovered who the culprit was, not that there’d ever been much doubt. The maids were well versed in her eccentricities, and while they might question why she demanded things a certain way, they would never dare to openly defy her. Jack, on the other hand, did not seem to have any such reservations.
“Where is he?” she asked shrilly as she flew unannounced into the kitchen. Sadie and Anna, each up to their elbows in separate bowls of dough, stopped what they were doing and looked up with identical expressions of bewilderment.
“Where is who?” Sadie asked, leaving a spot of flour on her temple as she swiped the back of her hand across her brow. “Tom?”
“Not Tom,” Anna interjected. “She means the other one.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said through gritted teeth. “The other one.”
“Oh.” Sadie’s eyes brightened. “You mean Jack.”
The corners of Beatrice’s mouth tightened at the familiarity in Sadie’s tone. She wasn’t jealous. That would be absurd. She was merely… concerned. Yes. That was it. Concerned that her unwanted guest might take advantage of one of her employees. Never mind the fact that if her smile were any indication, the employee in question would undoubtedly be more than willing to be taken advantage of.
“I assume you are referring to Mr. Emerson,” she said coolly, one eyebrow lifting.
“Er, yes.” Sadie’s white cap fluttered as her head bobbed up and down. “Yes, Mr. Emerson. He’s, ah… well… he is…” Shifting from foot to foot, she glanced sideways at her sister.
“He is outside,” Anna supplied.
Beatrice folded her arms across her chest. “And what is he doing outside?” she asked suspiciously.
“Well,” Anna hedged, “I suppose you could say he is starting a fire.”
“A fire? Why in heavens name would he be doing that?”
The sisters exchanged a second glance. Sadie bit her lip and shifted her weight from side to side.
“To burn something?” she said, making it sound more like a question than a statement.
Beatrice’s brow creased. What in the world could Jack possibly be burning outside? To her knowledge every fireplace in Stonewall - eighteen of them in total - were all in working order. If he wanted to start a fire was no reason for him to do it out in the cold and the snow. Unless… Her gaze flew past the maids to the kitchen window, lips parting in dismay when she saw the curtain wasn’t just pinned open, it was missing altogether.
No.
He wouldn’t dare.
“Where is he?” she demanded. “Where is Jack?”
“I do not really know…” Sadie began, only to swallow audibly when Beatrice reached out and grabbed the first thing her hand encountered on the table: a paring knife.
“The clearing behind the stables!” Anna said quickly. “He took all the curtains to the clearing behind the stables.”
“Thank you.” Still clutching the knife, Beatrice spun on her heel and stalked out of the kitchen.
Anna and Sadie watched her abrupt departure with bated breath, eyes wide and mouths parted.
Sadie recovered first.
“Do you think it will work?” she asked as she plunged her hands back into the bowl of dough and began to knead. Beside her Anna sighed heavily and did the same.
“I believe so. If this does not get her outside, I do not know what will.”
Molding the dough into a misshapen ball, Sadie lifted it out of the bowl and dropped it on
the table with a loud splat. Picking up a heavy wooden rolling pin she began to flatten the dough with broad, well-practiced strokes. “He is not like the first one,” she grunted. “Different as night and day, those two.”
Still staring at the door, Anna’s mouth curved in a slow smile. “I know.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Beatrice was halfway to the front door before she realized she was still in her bare feet. Hissing out an impatient breath, she threw open the nearest closet and yanked out the first pair of boots she saw. A heavy wool cloak that smelled vaguely of dust came next, followed by a fur hat and a red scarf. Without a care for how crazed it made her appear she pulled everything on over her nightgown, fingers trembling with poorly controlled rage as she struggled to tie the cloak closed.
If Jack Emerson thought for one instant he was going to get away with burning her curtains he had another thing coming. Awful, presumptuous man. Why, she’d never imagined anyone could be so rude! It was bad enough he’d come uninvited to Stonewall in the first place but this… this crossed the line. A line which Beatrice had no intention of forgiving.
When she found him she was going to demand he leave at once and this time she would make him listen. Let him use his wolfish grin on her all he wanted. It was not going to work.
She wouldn’t allow it.
Her anger carried her blindly to the door, but when her hand was about to twist the knob she suddenly hesitated, doubt and fear rising like plumes of dark smoke through the red haze of her fury. The last time she’d stepped foot outside it had been to identify her husband’s cold, bloody corpse. He’d been sprawled face down in the snow, his limbs tangled around his body like a life-sized doll that had been thrown carelessly to the ground.
She had fallen onto his broken body with a sob, already half mad in her grief. They’d pulled her off of him kicking and screaming, arms and legs flailing wildly as she tried in vain to cling to her dead husband.
After that everything had blurred together, but she would never forget the dark splatter of blood slowly turning the snow to crimson. It remained starkly imprinted in her mind; an everlasting reminder of a night she would never forget and a man she would never see alive again.
That was her secret. That was why she kept the windows covered once the first snow fell. Not because she hated winter, but because if she stared long enough at the barren landscape the blood always returned. Now Jack had taken her curtains away, and she was prepared to do whatever it took to get them back.
Steeling herself, Beatrice forced her hand to turn the knob and slowly opened the door.
For a moment she stood perfectly still as her vision adjusted to the bright spill of sunlight cascading down from a clear blue sky. It reflected off the freshly fallen snow, another two inches of which had come during the night. The cold air whipped color into her cheeks and she swallowed it down into her lungs as she stepped off the front portico and felt the crunch of ice beneath her boots for the first time in two years.
Massive oaks lined the walking path that led away from the house, their barren limbs clicking and clacking overhead as Beatrice slowly made her way to the clearing behind the stables, following a set of boot prints twice the size of her own and the sharp, unmistakable scent of smoke. It rose over the roof of the barn in a long, twisting trail of gray and the sight of it helped to stir the embers of her anger back to life.
What right did Jack have to destroy something that belonged to her? None, she thought fiercely as she quickened her step. None at all.
Tom emerged from the stables, his tall frame nearly unrecognizable beneath the layers of bulky winter garments he wore. Tugging at a thick brown scarf wrapped thrice around his neck, he pulled it beneath his chin and said with obvious surprise, “Lady Bea. What - what are you doing out here?”
Beatrice stopped and drew herself up to her full height, her eyes as cold as the icicles dripping down from the barn roof. “Where is he?”
Tom began to fumble with an excuse, but with one glance at his mistress’s countenance seemed to think better of it and simply pointed. Following the direction of his finger Beatrice saw the tracks she’d been following go around the side of the stables and disappear. With a cool nod at Tom she followed them, lengthening her stride until her footsteps fit into those left behind by Jack.
The walk was a short one; the clearing no more than a hundred yards from the barn. Once it had been used as a pasture for horses, but the fence boards had long since rotted away and were now nothing more than mounds beneath the snow. Woods encircled the clearing, a mixture of oak and pine that turned into a blur of green and brown as Beatrice focused in on the raging fire and the man who stood beside it, slowly and steadily feeding the flames with the curtains he’d stolen.
“Stop it!” she shouted, waving her arms in the air as she ran towards the fire, the soles of her boots skidding and slipping in the freshly fallen snow. The heat from the flames licked out, threatening to scorch her cheeks as she drew as close to Jack as she dared. “Stop it at once! What are you doing?”
If Jack was surprised by her sudden presence, it didn’t show in his expression. Glancing first at the fire and then at Beatrice, he nudged the tangled pile of twisted fabric at his feet and drawled, “I think it is fairly obvious, don’t you?”
“Where are the rest of them?” she demanded, the muscles in her stomach clenching into a tight ball of alarm as she did a quick, silent count of the remaining curtains.
Six. There were six, when there should have been three dozen or more. Beatrice stole a sharp, assessing glance at Jack. He stared back at her unblinkingly, his golden eyes filled with mocking laughter even as his mouth retained a straight, serious line.
“The rest of what?” he asked, dark brows lifting towards the brim of the hat he wore pulled low over his forehead. It was the same hat he’d worn when he arrived.
And the same hat he will be wearing when he leaves, Beatrice thought grimly, for today shall be his last day at Stonewall.
“You do not know what you have done.” Drawing her oversized cloak more snugly around her body as the cold air slipped easily through her thin nightgown and prickled the flesh beneath, Beatrice fixed Jack with a stare that had once made men stop and cower in their tracks. It was a stare she’d practiced in the mirror as a young debutante. A stare that had served her well in keeping the rogues and the rakes at bay. A stare that Jack met with a lazy grin and an absent shrug of his broad shoulders.
“They’re only curtains, love. Old ones at that. You should be thanking me.”
“Thanking you?” she repeated incredulously. “I should be - wait, stop! Put it down!” Beatrice’s eyes widened in horror as Jack picked up the remaining bundle of curtains and held them over the hungry flames. The fire snapped and hissed in anticipation, tiny embers flying up and singeing the fabric. Tendrils of panic wrapped around Beatrice’s neck in a vice like grip, ruthlessly squeezing until she gasped for air.
If the curtains burned then so would her sanity, for she feared being forced to stare out at the wintery landscape day after day and night after night would finally be her undoing. With the windows covered she could force her mind to think of other things when her thoughts drifted to Jeffrey, but if the glass was exposed and every time she happened to glance outside she saw blood staining the snow in an ever widening circle of red… No. No. She couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t!
With a wild cry Beatrice lunged forward and made a desperate grab for the curtains just as Jack threw them into the fire. A vicious wave of heat seared the side of her face and the palms of her hands as the flames ignited, swallowing the curtains whole. Dimly she heard Jack’s voice over the roaring in her ears, and when she mindlessly tried to yank one of the curtains free she felt him grab her by the waist and drag her away.
The heels of her boots cut two deep grooves in the snow as she was pulled back from the fire to a safe distance some ten yards away. She clawed frantically at the arms wrapped like steel bands around her middle but
it was to no avail. Even still recovering from his injury, Jack was far too strong.
“How could you?” she cried, already half lost to reason as she watched her most prized possession burn through a sheen of glittering tears. “How could you?”
Had someone told Beatrice three years ago she would one day sob over the loss of curtains, she would have no doubt looked at them as though they were crazed which was rather ironic since now she was the one behaving like a lunatic. But grief, like love, was not an emotion that could be easily controlled or explained. It was a disease with symptoms that changed on a whim; one that ravaged the body from the inside out, dormant for long periods of time before flaring unexpectedly to life. Watching the curtains turn to smoke and ash she felt the loss of Jeffrey more keenly now than ever before, a crippling pain that threatened to bring her to her knees.
The only thing that kept her from falling was Jack. He held her upright, his fingers clamped along the bony ridge of her hips. “Calm yourself,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair behind her right ear. “Take a deep breath. That’s a girl. And another. There. There you go.”
Beatrice sank back against his chest, her entire body trembling with the force it took to regain control. Embarrassment went hand in hand with exhaustion as she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, air whistling out between her lips in a senseless tune that matched the erratic beating of her heart. Before her the fire continued to burn, the trail of black smoke slowly dying away as the last of the curtains were consumed.
There would be no hiding from the snow now, she thought dimly. No more pretending everything was as it should be. No more hiding in a house filled with shadows.
Now, courtesy of Jack, she would be forced at long last to face the light… and the memories of a night she wanted nothing more than to forget.
“They are only curtains.” Jack turned her slowly around until they stood face to face and flattened his hands on her shoulders, the warmth of his palms coursing through her cloak and her nightgown to brand the skin beneath. “Why are they so bloody important to you?”
Regency Christmas (Holiday Collection) Page 19
