“No!” she cried, her arms flailing outward as his powerful hand drew her toward him. Her fingers groping frantically, they caught the edge of the night table, and she twisted, trying to escape him. In desperation, she grabbed the first object she touched, the brass candlestick, and swung it in a weak arc; Jared’s firm hold suddenly went limp. Immediately a picture of Charles Rhodes’s blood-splattered face flashed through her mind. Dropping her weapon, she sat upright, fear surging through her. My God! Was he … ?
His moan lifted to her ears, and Alissa breathed a sigh of relief. Then her fingers gently searched through his thick hair along his scalp to find the rising lump. He moaned again, but this time it strangely sounded like the purr of a cat. Then she realized he was snoring.
“Oooh! You drunken sot!” she cried as she bounded from the bed. She snatched the coverlet from his limber body, grabbed her pillow, and turned on her heel. Certain she would not be bothered the rest of the night, for Jared was out like a snuffed candle, she nonetheless marched across the hall and entered Megan’s room. Checking on the child, she found her asleep and settled onto the chaise. “Let’s see you try something now,” she whispered angrily, knowing full well that Megan would be the perfect deterrent should he awaken before dawn, his amorous flights of fancy still twirling through his muddled brain. “Pleasant dreams, my lord,” she said, punching her pillow, taking her wrath out on it. With a last angry swat, she pulled the cover over herself and closed her eyes.
Sunlight spotted itself fully on Jared’s face, and he swatted at the obnoxiously bright beam. But the movement caused a violent pounding in his head, and he winced. Rolling to his side, away from the morning sun, he eased open a crimped eyelid. After a moment, its twin loosed itself and widened; he blinked. Noting his whereabouts, he jerked upright.
“Damnation!” he cried in agony, his hands clamping tightly to his head, trying to hold the intense pain at bay.
At first he thought the brandy had caused his godawful headache. But, now, as his fingers gently probed the mysterious lump he’d found rising along his scalp, he doubted that the drink alone was the culprit. Slowly, the past night’s events began trickling through his fog-laden brain, and with a groan he sank back onto the mattress. Alissa.
Suddenly the door flew open, and Jared grabbed the sheet, flinging it over his nakedness; his head suffered severely for the quick movement.
“Oops,” Mary said, blushing. “I—I thought the room empty, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb ye. I—I—”
“What do you want?”
“The mistress said I was to move her clothes, like ye ordered.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No,” Alissa said, coming into the room. “If it’s to be done, then it will be done now.”
Jared groaned and rolled to his side. “Then be on with it.” But, immediately, he regretted his words. The wardrobe door squeaked on its hinges to pierce his eardrums and scrape down his spine. His stomach turned a somersault, and he swallowed hard, willing it to behave. The screech continued as she purposely swung the door back and forth, grabbing her dresses from within, until he was certain his jittery nerves would climb straight through his skin. “Stop that racket!” he growled.
“But you ordered it done,” Alissa said, holding back a smile as she moved the door again.
His stomach lurched again. “Forget what I said!”
The hinge squeaked anew. “You are certain, my lord?”
“God, yes,” he moaned. “Now leave me in peace.”
“As you wish, my lord.” Her eyes on her husband, Alissa closed the wardrobe door with a thump; his whole body twitched. Dismissing Mary, she walked to the side of the bed. “Might I get you something?”
His bloodshot eyes viewed her at length, then he slowly levered himself up and leaned back against the headboard, the pillow behind him. “Some powders for my head.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Dugan to prepare you some.” She turned to leave.
“You wouldn’t know how I came by this bump on my head, would you?”
Innocent eyes turned toward him. “Bump?”
“Yes, madam … a bump.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps you fell.”
“Perhaps … but I doubt it.”
“Well, my lord, if you have no recollection of how you received your injury, I suppose it shall remain a mystery to us all.”
His eyes narrowed. “I have my suspicions, madam.” He noticed her raised brow. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe this is a battle injury. Perchance, has war been declared upon me?”
“That is a possibility, sir.”
“And shall I be forewarned of any further aggression?”
“A good general never sends advance word of his battle plan to his enemy. However, you might consider that your wound may have resulted, not from a premeditated attack by your opponent, but from a sudden need for defensive action. If one is threatened, then one must act.”
Although they spoke in riddles, Jared understood Alissa’s meaning, all too clearly. In the light of day, he regretted his heated words, informing her that nothing would stop him from having her, that he owned her. His hot temper and angry words, he knew, had only served to drive the wedge deeper between them. He’d never use force on her. She was far too precious to him to ever hurt her like that. Yet, she had to understand that any contact with Ian Sinclair was strictly forbidden.
“Being last night’s aggressor, I offer my apologies and an immediate truce. However, let it also be known, if I find a marauder has encroached on my territory, especially when I’ve given fair warning against such an intrusion, I will defend what is mine … to the death, if necessary. Is that clear?”
Immediately Alissa realized the term “marauder” referred to the Earl of Huntsford. “Yes, it is clear.” Then knowing his mind was closed to all discussion of his estranged friend, she turned and started for the door. “I’ll have Mrs. Dugan prepare a draught of powders for you.”
“Alissa,” he called softly, and she faced him. “Don’t break our truce by defying me. Peace is far better than war.”
“Peace, my lord, comes only through understanding. Unfortunately, that is something you apparently lack.”
As he watched the door close, Jared knew the battle lines had been drawn. No doubt, he predicted, a long siege would ensue before he’d finally break down her defenses.
An uneasy tension settled upon Hawkstone over the next several days, everyone noticing the way the new mistress treated the master with polite coolness. “They’ve gone back to separate rooms,” the servants reported to each other, whispering their thoughts behind feather dusters and stacks of linen being carted to the isolated beds. Not knowing the details, they assumed it had to do with the Duke of Claremore’s verbal altercation with his son, the Marquis of Ebonwyck, over the younger man taking a “commoner” for his wife. Even among the staff, there had been an invisible line drawn, half being for the “actress,” half being against her. “She shouldn’t have married above her station,” some said with a sniff. “She knew nothin’ about his title, so it ain’t her fault!” others defended. But their bickering was kept quiet, Lord and Lady Ebonwyck unaware of the turmoil they’d caused.
At first, Jared watched his wife, searching for a vulnerable point where he might sneak behind her armaments. Subtle teasing did no good, nor did his rakish attempts at seduction. Polite reserve had no effect on her, either. He went from perfect gentleman to devilish rogue and back again, but, to his surprise, he found her immune to any ploy he used. So much for the Braxton charm, he thought, peevishly, wondering what in blazes it would take to persuade her to come back to his bed! At wit’s end, he found he was quickly losing his patience.
“Give her time,” his father said one afternoon, while the two were cloistered in Jared’s study.
“I’m not about to wait a year!”
“I estimated two,” the duke said, chuckling.
“Blast it all! Why did you ever come here?”
/>
“To see my granddaughter, of course, and to try to mend the fences between us. It’s been over two years since Celeste’s death and our subsequent row. Since you had elected not to come to me, I came to you.” He eyed his son carefully. “You never did tell me what happened the night she died. I know I had accused you—”
“Of murdering my wife … I’d hoped you knew me better.”
“I said those words because you refused to share what had happened that night. You’d skirted the issue to the point of rousing suspicion. I’d known that your marriage had gone sour. What was I to think? In my state of anger, I accused you, wrongly. I know that now. I apologize.”
Jared studied his father a long moment. “Accepted.”
After the two had shaken hands, drawing each other into an embrace, the duke asked, “Will you share that night with me?”
“Don’t ask, Father. Celeste is gone, and it is best the memories of her death be left buried alongside her.”
“You shouldn’t keep it inside you, son. It’s not healthy. You should share the happenings with someone so you might purge yourself of any guilt you still carry.”
“I carry no guilt,” Jared snapped, angrily, knowing he lied. Had Megan not heard them arguing, she’d not be in her present state. Had they not fought, Celeste would still be alive … and he’d still be trapped in a loveless marriage. But, being well connected and having the wherewithal to do it, he could have petitioned for a divorce. Stupidly, he had not done it sooner, believing Megan would have somehow suffered because of it. In the end, she’d borne a greater burden, more so than if he’d cast her heartless mother out—alive. “I won’t discuss it, so let it drop.”
“As you wish,” the duke said, not wanting to disturb the shaky foundations of their renewed relationship, certain that, in time, he’d discover the truth. “As for Alissa,” he said, changing the subject, “I suggest you indulge her. Be patient with her. Treat her with reverence. By all means, no matter how many times she shuns you, keep your Braxton temper in check. I tell you from experience, you’ll regret it if you let it loose.”
“I suppose Mother taught you prudence in that area.”
“Damned right she did. I hated sleeping alone.”
“I understand your meaning. We’re of the same cut.”
“Perk up! By winter, hopefully, she’ll be warming your bed, instead of a heated brick.”
Jared scowled. “An encouraging word, if I’ve ever heard one.” Then he poured himself a light brandy and raised his glass. “I’ll not share my bed with a brick. And that, sir, is a promise.” With a salute, he downed it.
In a secluded spot in the garden, Alissa sat on a low stone bench, her favorite spot, thinking about her plight. Should she stay in a loveless marriage—loveless on her husband’s part, that is? Or should she leave him, return to London, and resume her career on the stage? It was a difficult decision. Especially when there was a child involved—possibly two. At present, she couldn’t bring herself to leave Megan, not when the girl needed her. But should she decide to take the coward’s way out and run, there remained the possibility that she’d be raising a child, hers and Jared’s, alone. Remembering her own experience, a child deprived of a father’s love, she couldn’t decide what course to take. Although her mother had tried to fill the void, Alissa still felt a certain emptiness. Silently, she’d grieved for her unknown parent, even to this day.
The wind picked up, and an odd creaking sound met her ears. With a sudden leap, she bounded from the bench; the Grecian statue that stood directly behind it crashed into its center. Her hand pressed against her wildly pounding heart as she gazed in disbelief at the broken stone seat, the heavy sculpture, shattered in three large pieces, lying across it.
Her rapid pulse slowing, Alissa released her breath. Three near misses in as many days, she thought, her shaky hand rubbing her brow. First, a loose piece of carpet had snagged her foot on the stairs, almost tumbling her down their entire length. Thankfully, she’d grabbed the rail, stopping her sudden descent. Next, while she was riding Sweet Honesty, the saddle girth had broken, sending Alissa to the ground. Fortunately, she’d only been bruised, but if they’d still been at a full gallop, as they were moments before … she shuddered to think what might have happened. Now, the statue. Before, she’d thought the accidents to be just that—accidents! But now, she doubted they were. Was someone deliberately trying to … kill her?
Jared?
No, she denied, again erasing the memory of the gossipy maids’ words. Again, she refused to believe him capable of murder. He had not killed Celeste. Nor was he trying to kill her. Then who? Robert? Edward? Mrs. Dugan? Alissa wondered if she was simply misreading the incidents; then she decided they were probably nothing more than odd happenings.
Erosive crumblings caused by the weather met her eye as she examined the pedestal. Then she noticed the lip of the supporting platform showed new breakage, but decided it could have occurred when the sculpture fell. Shrugging off the episode, she made her way back to the house, intending to report it to Mr. Stanley. She refused to speak to Jared.
As she entered through the glass doors into the downstairs sitting room, a familiar voice filtered to her ears from the foyer. Could it be? she wondered, scurrying toward the sound.
“Dearest child, it’s so good to see you again.”
“Eudora!” she cried, and ran into the woman’s waiting arms.
CHAPTER
Nineteen
After depositing Eudora’s luggage in her bedroom, Mr. Stanley excused himself and left the two women alone. “Dearest, come sit by me,” Eudora said, turning concerned eyes upon Alissa, who sat in the empty space on the settee. “Something seems to be troubling you.”
“I don’t know what you—”
“Alissa, you cannot fool me. What’s wrong?”
She dropped her eyes to her hands and sighed. “Everything’s wrong, Eudora.”
“You mean Jared Braxton, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Her eyes met Eudora’s. “And he’s not simply Jared Braxton. He’s the Marquis of Ebonwyck … his father is a duke!”
“Marquis?” Eudora asked, surprised, then laughed. “I’d think your troubles were over. A marquis … what more could you want?”
“A man who loves me.”
Eudora frowned. “Are you sure he doesn’t?”
“Yes! He’s told me it’s a wasted emotion.”
“But you’re in love with him.”
“No!” Alissa disavowed in haste. Then, seeing Eudora’s skeptical look, she whispered, “Yes, I love him. But it angers me to admit it.”
“Why?”
“Because …” Alissa fell silent.
“You’d like to see the shoe slipped onto the other’s foot. Namely, the Marquis of Ebonwyck’s … correct?”
“For once, I’d like to know what it means to be loved by a man. My husband considers me chattel. He needs me only to satiate his lusts and bear his offspring. Otherwise I’m a whiffet … a nobody.”
Eudora remembered the marquis’s unannounced visit in London. Once she’d recovered from the initial shock of seeing him, as well as the discovery that the two were married, she’d paid close attention to Jared Braxton. While on their shopping excursion, contrary to most men, he had behaved as though he’d enjoyed the outing. And she had noted that he’d spared no expense, purchasing the finest and most costly of gowns, rejecting design after design, until he’d found the ones that were “distinctively Alissa.” But, most important, when he’d spoken of his new bride, a certain light had entered his eye. Having seen it many times before, mainly in her own husband’s eye, Eudora was certain she’d not mistaken its actual meaning. “Tell me why you think this,” she said at last, believing the younger woman had somehow misconstrued her husband’s true feelings.
For the next half hour, Alissa explained the events leading up to her marriage and what followed. She even told of her friendship with Ian Sinclair. “Jared doesn’t believe me when
I tell him Ian did not cuckold him. If he ever had the capacity to love a woman, Celeste managed to destroy that part of him. Megan is the only one to whom he willingly gives his heart.” She paused. “Eudora … I fear I’m with child.”
“Oh, dearest, how wonderful!”
“No, it isn’t,” she said, rising to pace the room. “I plan to leave Jared. But I—”
“Have you thought this through?”
Alissa looked at her friend. “Yes.”
“And do you realize, if you should desert him, it may bode ill for you? I’ve little doubt he’d make every effort to find you. He’ll take your child from you … it is his right, you know.”
“He’s unaware of my condition.”
“Then keep it that way … for now, at least.” Eudora smiled. “From what you’ve told me, dear, I think your marquis is not immune to love. He’s simply afraid to admit to it.”
“You think he loves me?” she asked incredulously.
“I do. The problem is … how to make him confess it to you, as well as himself.”
“If you’re planning some sort of deception again, I’ll not have any part of it. Jared and I have duped each other too many times already. There’s no trust left between us. Besides, he once informed me that engaging in feminine trickeries, like coquettishness or attempts to make him jealous—”
“He’s already that,” Eudora cut in, then noticed Alissa’s questioning gaze. “Ian Sinclair,” she said knowingly. “Although you might believe differently, especially when your husband is so candid with his words, deep down, he knows you’ve been faithful to him. If he thought otherwise, he’d have gone after Sinclair by now. I suggest you break off any contact with the earl, at least until the marquis is made to see reason. If you don’t, you might find one or the other lying in a pool of blood. You wouldn’t want that on your conscience.”
Alissa shivered at the thought. “I could never forgive myself should anything happen to either of them.”
“I know that, dearest.” Eudora rose, walked to Alissa’s side, and embraced the younger woman’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. If you have no contact with the earl, then nothing will happen. As for your husband, I think that if you’d simply be your charming self, he’d soon discover he cannot resist you. It’s sort of like dangling a carrot before a donkey. The tempting morsel, which stays just beyond its reach, eventually leads the stubborn creature wherever you wish it to go.”
Masque of Enchantment Page 28
