How had he not known?
He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice when she finished and began packing up her ministering gear.
Don’t go! He wished he felt strong enough to make his case aloud, but even now the drug residue was weighting his eyelids and making his limbs feel heavy.
She leaned over to pull his shirt back together again, then, paused…
He sensed her uncertainty. Mutely, he pleaded touch me, please.
She did better than that. She leaned down and placed a fervent kiss right in the middle of his chest. She let her lips wander to one flat nipple, then to the other. She seemed startled to see them harden. Her head jerked up to look into his face.
He barely got his eyes shut in time. He felt her staring at him and imagined the suspicion on her face. He’d seen it countless times already. She was not a very trusting person, his wife.
He concentrated on his even breathing once again.
She exhaled softly and began to button up his nightshirt and he had to force himself not to latch onto her wrist to hold her there. He wanted to talk to her. Wanted her to comfort him, tell him what his wound was all about and why she hadn’t told him about it.
He clenched his fists against doing it. He had to figure out this new wrinkle first. His suspicious nature again.
They made a good pair!
He faked another small snuffle and she leaned over to smooth the blanket and softly pat his arm before making as quick and quiet an exit as her entry.
Despite his drowsiness, Reed felt like dragging himself up and tearing off the bandage to inspect his arm. It took but a moment to realize the impracticality of attempting that. His body felt extraordinarily heavy and he couldn’t imagine standing, let alone lighting a candle safely.
That damn drug! Even without his dose tonight he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open.
He fought its effects, struggling to stay awake to think about tonight’s events. But his leaden eyelids were winning the battle and sleep crept up to carry him away just as he’d pieced together one coherent question — what was so wrong with his shoulder they were unable to tell him about it?
* * *
Reed felt inordinately proud of himself this morning. Though it was just after sunrise, he was up and had dressed himself. Well, partially. He’d left on his night shirt but put on the freshly laundered pantaloons he’d found in his dressing room. A man dare not risk shocking any maids he might meet by wandering around in only his night shirt!
Where were the rest of his things?
Time enough for that later. For now, he was planning to reconnoiter and then to surprise his spouse by presenting himself downstairs in the morning room for breakfast.
Yesterday, it had taken all of his strength to drag himself down to open the door. He’d been ready to collapse from exhaustion, afterwards.
This morning he felt a little livelier. Thanks to avoiding the milk last night, no doubt. Now, he was keen to get out of this room and move, before this spurt of energy deserted him.
Stepping out of the room, he looked around eagerly. He must be an active person, normally. He was impatient to explore, see things. The morning meal would only be served in a few hours, so he had lots of time.
It was good to move around after spending days in bed.
He headed off at a brisk pace.
Hold on! He’d better not go too fast. He was still feeling a bit lightheaded. He kept a hand ready to touch the wall for support while he moved, as quietly as possible, along the hallway. He didn’t want to wake anybody. Not even the old goat would be awake at this hour and Mrs. P, if awake, would be in her kitchen and he had no notion of straying there. As for Joseph, he didn’t arrive for another hour.
Scouting his surroundings felt like something he had to do. More than just curiosity or a precaution, it was a necessity.
Hmmm… Another item to add to the list of things he was learning about himself. He liked to be know what was around him.
A niggle of unease began to edge into his consciousness. The house seemed uncannily familiar for someone who’d just arrived in Town and had never been here until a few days ago. Like an automaton, his steps took him upstairs to the top floor. He stopped in front of the entrance to what was obviously a very large room. It had an unusually wide doorway. The owner must need to move large items in and out of the room. It was partly ajar but was shielded from the hallway, by a large, oriental screen.
He poked his head around it, curious to see what was inside. He sniffed. Oil paint was the smell that assailed him first. That familiar scent he’d been aware of since the first time he awoke.
Suddenly, a vivid picture flickered through his brain. He was standing in front of an easel, shirtless, dazzling sunlight pouring in large windows, paintbrush in hand, cheerfully splashing bright paint across a large canvas.
He closed his eyes to concentrate on the image but, behind the darkness of closed eyelids, it dispersed as rapidly as it had appeared.
Damnation! He felt like he’d come close to a determining moment, where his memory almost materialized, only to have it vanish again.
Desperate to bring it back, he again peered into the room behind the screen. The far wall was lined with windows all along the front of the house, with a vaulted ceiling topped by a cupola at the crest. For London, it was surprisingly bright in here, most likely due to the cupola being taller than most of the homes surrounding it.
A strong wave of familiarity nearly overwhelmed him. He ducked back out into the hallway and leaned against the wall, stomach roiling and weak at the knees.
Something about this room was disturbing him. Maybe he painted... which explained those blurred images of him facing an easel, and why the smell of gum turp struck such an evocative note.
Gum turp! That was it! He’d finally identified the odor. Too bad he hadn’t thought to bring his memory list with him.
Even the room...
His spouse told him they had been here for less than three weeks. That he’d only just arrived the night he fell and hit his head, so why did he know this room, this smell, so well? Had he some kind of unnatural power? Bah! Next, he’d be thinking he had a sixth sense!
Muttered curses and someone slamming something down hard startled him, convincing him to steal another look.
Talia! He hadn’t noticed her earlier. She’d been hidden by a large canvas on a huge easel in front of her. But she didn’t look like any Talia he’d seen up until now. She wore a loose smock and her hair was tied back behind her head in a queue that sat high on the crown of her head, looking a little like a pony’s tail. She was engrossed with applying her brush to the canvas in a confident manner.
So this was her work! The reason why she left him alone so often. He wished he could see what she was painting with such absorption but, naturally, the canvas faced the light from the windows and, thus, away from the door.
Suddenly, her shoulders stiffened, her head arched warily.
Devil take it! He dipped back behind the screen. He knew she’d been about to glance toward the doorway. She’d sensed she was being watched.
Instinct kept him from letting her know he was there.
Clever idea, the screen. It allowed her to leave the door open for proper airing from the powerful odors, without being seen at work by any one passing in the hallway. The fact that he instinctively understood such a tactic reinforced his strong sense that he must also be a painter.
Maybe that’s what brought them together. He’d have thought, though, that if they shared this passion, she would have hinted at it, if not told him outright. Or was his knowledge of art studios merely because he was wed to an artist?
He waited a few moments to give her time to shake off the feeling of being watched, before once again putting his head around the screen to watch her ply her craft. Remaining in the shadows, he studied her, straining to remember... anything.
She was being watched. Common sense told Tally
it wasn’t likely. Foster was, sleeping a bit later after staying up to guard the house all night. At least, she hoped he was. Besides, he avoided coming near her paints and cleaners. The smells made him nauseous. Joseph wouldn’t have arrived yet and Mrs. P was almost certainly busy preparing the morning meal.
That left Reed, who’d been given enough laudanum to sleep deeply for another few hours at least.
It was just her imagination working overtime, because she’d be mortified if anybody found her painting … this!
She’d been up working since first light. Indeed, if daylight weren’t so necessary, she’d have been at her easel long before then. It might have calmed her troubled thoughts and occupied her sleepless night.
All night, the only thing she could think of was the gentleness of his hold, the brush of his lips that had rapidly turned incendiary, his dizzying touch between... She felt herself blush crimson at the mere thought. All this had kept her awake, wondering and worrying about this new avenue her life was taking.
She had no experience of men as suitors. The only men she really knew were her twin brothers, her father, Monsieur and Spencer. She’d never even come close to being kissed before.
Was this agitation she was experiencing afterwards, normal? Or was it just this man’s caresses that caused such havoc to her senses?
Dio, she hoped not! He’d entered her life climbing through her bedroom window! They had no idea who he was.
Yet here she was, barely dawn, trying to chase away her demons by capturing his likeness in a painting. She was trying to understand what made him different from other men. By painting him, she hoped to delve deeper, to get to the core of him. Then, maybe she’d be able to expunge the restlessness he triggered in her.
She was unused to her emotions being so out of control. She had trained herself to remain composed in all situations, to counter the volatility of her family that had colored her childhood. It was disturbing to think that one man’s kisses were upsetting her well-ordered world like this.
How was she ever to resist, if he truly set out to seduce her?
* * *
As he waited for his wife to get over the feeling of being watched, Reed tried to call back the image of him painting but, try as he might, it had disappeared completely. The effort left him exhausted and weary. He was about to walk away and go back to his room, discouraged. Then he thought, perhaps if he talked to her, if she knew what he’d recalled, she might help.
He stepped forward into the sunny part of the room and waited for her to realize he was there. He didn’t want to startle her. She might move inadvertently and ruin her painting. Was that his painter’s instinct talking or had she schooled him thus?
When she failed to notice him after several long moments, he cleared his throat.
She let out a startled yelp and jumped back, almost tripping over the foot of the large easel.
“Guilty conscience?” he teased.
“What are you doing up here?” she demanded angrily.
She didn’t sound at all happy to see him, he was disappointed to note. Downright unfriendly, in fact.
“You can’t come in here.” She set her brush and palette down. Her tone was accusatory, as if he had committed a serious offence. “No one is allowed in here. Ever.”
“Not even me?”
“No, not even you.”
He could almost swear she’d been about to say, “especially not you!” She glanced around frantically, looking for something. She reached for a large paint-stained cloth, while keeping an eagle eye on him.
He edged forward a little to explain his presence.
“Do – not – move – any – closer,” she barked.
He halted on the spot. His quiet little wife could roar like a lion when aroused to it. He should have been outraged she wanted him gone. He suspected most men would be. Perverse creature that he was, he found it… stimulating. To see his little lioness defending her territory excited his senses. He moved forward again, wanting to help her as she struggled to cover her work with the unwieldy cloth.
“I said no closer.” Her tone, now, was shrill with alarm.
He began to feel sorry for causing her such anxiety, then had to gulp back a laugh when he heard an Italian curse escape her usually circumspect mouth. No doubt about it, she was flustered and furious. He backed up a few feet and folded his arms across his chest.
“What are you painting?” He hoped to inject a friendlier tone. After all, he wanted to ask for her help.
“None of your–” she stopped in mid-sentence, “business,” she mumbled huffily. She finished covering the canvas then turned her full focus on him.
Oh oh, now he was in for it. She was seething.
Her eyes narrowed into slits.
This was much more fun, and invigorating, than trying to plumb the depths of his mind for traces of memory.
“You are never to come here again, you understand?” She advanced on him with a threatening stride.
If she weren’t so tiny, he’d have felt inclined to retreat, she looked so fierce. Instead, he held his ground, as well as his laughter. Now he knew why he’d married her!
“Why not?” He knew he was baiting the lion cub, but he sensed this was an innate part of his nature.
“Because this is my private space.” She must have heard her own words echoing back to her because she relented a little and softened her tone a shade. “Surely a woman is allowed to have a place where only she can go?” She blew out a frustrated breath that lifted the hair off her forehead.
“Not unreasonable, I suppose.”
She glanced sharply at him. She thought he was mocking her. She seemed unable to make up her mind what his intentions were.
He stifled a chuckle.
“What are you doing up here?” She was calming down now.
“I woke early and decided to explore. It’s the first morning I’ve felt able to rise and dress myself.”
“No recovered memories?” She looked almost fearful of his answer.
“None.” His lovely spouse was so upset by his invasion of her painting space, he hadn’t the heart to tell her he had a vague memory that he might also paint. Besides, she’d know that already. They clearly didn’t share a studio, if she was this protective of her privacy. Where was his?
Ah… of course, he was just visiting London, so he wouldn’t have one in this rented house.
Not that he felt like painting at the moment. His lack of memory was too all-consuming and left no room for anything else.
Except her.
Besides, he might be having one of those false memories the doctor warned about. Being married to a painter might be making him believe he was also one.
“I disturbed your work. My apologies. If you want to continue, I can go explore elsewhere.”
“No!” She seemed to realize she had overreacted and lightened her next words. “I’ll put my paints away and we can go have breakfast.” She wiped the excess paint off of her brushes, gave them a quick swish in a container of dirty gum turp, then plunked them, brush-side down, into a larger bottle of cleaner turpentine and covered her palette with a damp cloth.
Seeing how she was only temporarily storing her painting tools, he guessed she planned on continuing her painting later today. What was so important about her pastime that it required such dedication, such secrecy?
She moved towards him and said, “Shall we? You must be ready for food by now.”
He held out his arm and, after a momentary hesitation, she took it. He wasn’t that hungry, but he wasn’t about to deny himself the opportunity to spend time with her. He wanted to know everything about her, to connect with her on a deeper level and find out why this woman of his was so elusive.
Chapter Eleven
Reed was so frustrated he had to stop himself from slamming the door! He strode to his bed and lay down on his back, arms crossed over his chest. He was disgruntled and upset at not being able to remember more about himself.
&nb
sp; And his wife had disappeared again! Probably back up to her studio to paint.
At least she’d shared breakfast with him. Although, she’d been even more uncommunicative than usual. Still annoyed he’d invaded her sanctuary, he’d wager.
Not like when she touched him last night. He smiled wryly and lay down on his bed. To think he’d imagined she was coming to have her way with him.
Hell! In the excitement of leaving his room to explore this morning, he’d forgotten all about her late night visit. Understandable when he thought about how blurred it all seemed. Like a wisp of a dream, quickly forgotten.
Uncrossing his arms, he turned on his side, trying to make himself comfortable.
“Damna–!” He bit off his curse as pain radiated through his arm and shoulder.
“Blast it!” He sat up so fast it hurt even more. His sore shoulder! The one she had bandaged last night. Hurriedly, he removed his shirt and worked the cloth covering the wound free. Now that he was a little less numb from the laudanum, he felt some pain at the back of his shoulder.
Leaving the cloth on the bed, he stood and walked over to the light by the window, though he took care not to stand directly in front of it. Those dratted men in that house across the street, prying into others’ business! He still didn’t know whose house they were watching, but he had no intention of making it easy for them if it was this one.
He twisted his head to see what his injury looked like, but it was awkwardly placed at the back of his shoulder. Seeing it properly was impossible. He reached over his shoulder to touch it and winced. Hard to believe how sore it was when until now, he hadn’t felt it at all. That must have been one hell of a strong dose of opium they were giving him! If Talia hadn’t come to his room last night, it might have taken another day or two for him to start feeling it.
He reached for the hand-held mirror on the dresser and awkwardly placed it behind him to reflect the wound into the mirror attached to the top of the dresser in front of him.
Christ! He almost dropped the mirror. A gunshot wound!
The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife Page 13
