Thunder and Roses: Book 1 in The Fallen Angel Series

by Mary Jo Putney

  He drew out another picture and uncovered a full-length likeness of the old earl. Though the white hair showed that it had been painted toward the end of his life, his posture had lost none of its vigor and his face was as arrogant as ever. An impressive man, but Clare knew that Nicholas wouldn't want to look at him every day. "Leave this one up here. I'll see if there's something suitable among the other paintings."

  She found two charming landscapes that deserved to be hung downstairs. The last picture was another portrait, and this time the face looking out from the canvas belonged to Nicholas himself. He was posed holding the reins of a horse and with hounds lying at his feet. Clare caught her breath, unable to resist the carefree charm of that handsome, laughing youth. This was the Nicholas who had fascinated her when she was a child.

  Then she frowned, perplexed. The clothing was wrong, too old-fashioned, and the coloring wasn't dark enough. "Could this be his lordship's father?"

  Williams squatted and peered at the small plaque set in the frame. " 'The Honorable Kenrick Davies.' " The butler straightened. "He left home before I started here. The one time I looked at this painting, I assumed it was of Master Nicholas."

  "Hang it over the fireplace that is nearer the hall, and put Lady Tregar over the other one. " Clare dusted her hands against her skirt. "With luck, we might have the drawing room completed by the time Lord Aberdare returns from Swansea."

  And when he came back, she wanted to be there to see his reaction to the portrait of his long-dead wife.

  Chapter 7

  Late afternoon sun was slanting in the windows as they finished rearranging the drawing room. Clare thanked everyone who had taken part, then dismissed them for the day.

  Before going upstairs to bathe, she made a last survey of the drawing room. A critic might point out that the walls needed repainting and the upholstery fabrics were past their prime, but the overall effect was very attractive. Hoping Nicholas would be pleased, she stepped into the hall and inhaled happily. The new cook, Mrs. Howell, had been busy all day, and tantalizing scents of roasting meat and baking bread drifted through the house.

  To her dismay, the earl chose that moment to walk in the door, hatless, wind-tousled, and coiled whip in hand. "Hello, Clare," he said with a smile. "Did you have a productive day?"

  Crossly she wondered why mud spattered on his boots and driving coat made him seem dashing, while smudges on her dress made her dowdy. Life was not fair. Wishing that he had been delayed another half hour, she replied, "Very. And you?"

  "I located the engineer who built most of the tramways in Merthyr Tydfil, and I found a good site for the coastal quay. I'll tell you more over dinner." He sniffed. "Something smells delicious. You were successful at luring a cook up here?"

  "Yes, and that's not the only success." She beckoned him into the drawing room, trying not to look as nervous as she felt.

  He stepped inside, then halted and gave a soft whistle of amazement. "Good Lord, the place is so bright and appealing that it's hard to believe this is Aberdare. How did you accomplish so much in such a short time?"

  "I can't take the credit. The ideas came from Williams, and the hard work from the servants I engaged this morning." Wanting reassurance, she went on, "You approve of the results?"

  "Very much." Nicholas gave her a devastating smile, then began to investigate his surroundings. Touching a blossom in a vase full of spicy-scented carnations, he said, "Where did you find flowers this early in the spring?"

  "Believe it or not, they're from the Aberdare greenhouse. For the last four years, the gardener has continued to raise flowers and vegetables because no one told him to stop."

  The earl looked startled. "Old Iolo, with the peg leg?" When Clare nodded, he said, "It's sobering to think how much power I had over Aberdare when I wasn't even thinking about the place. Iolo, Williams, the rest of the skeleton staff of servants who have performed their jobs through the years—I don't deserve that kind of loyalty."

  "No, you don't," Clare agreed with a hint of tartness. "If it's any comfort, the loyalty was more to their wages than to you personally. Though I believe that Iolo has been selling the unused flowers and produce at the Penreith market, so he hasn't done badly out of your absence."

  "Still..." Nicholas's voice drifted off as he looked up and saw the portrait of Kenrick Davies. After a long silence, he said quietly, "My father?"

  "So the plaque says. The painting was in the attic. You've never seen it before?"

  "Never. My grandfather probably had it moved upstairs when he disinherited my father." He studied the picture intently. "I see why my parentage was never disputed."

  "Do you remember your father at all?"

  "A little. He laughed a great deal. I suspect that living as a Gypsy was a game to him. He enjoyed the life, but if he hadn't died of a fever, I think that eventually he would have returned to the Gorgio world."

  He turned and began strolling down the room. "I like the way you arranged the furniture in conversational groupings. It gives the room a greater sense of intimacy."

  Clare was pleased; that had been one of her own ideas. She drifted along the wall, watching his expression and reactions to learn what he liked best and least. He evaluated the changes tactilely, lightly skimming his palm over the shining surface of a satinwood table, prodding the deep cushions of a chair with his coiled whip, using the toe of his boot to test the depth of a magnificent Persian carpet that had been rolled in the attic.

  Glancing over at Clare, he opened his mouth to speak, then froze. "Where the bloody hell did that come from?"

  His explosive rage was so unexpected that Clare was momentarily paralyzed. Then she remembered that she was standing below the portrait of Lady Tregar. She swallowed, then said, "From the attic."

  Nicholas raised his driving whip and lashed out at her with a furious snap of his wrist. Clare gasped and instinctively threw up her arm to protect her face.

  There was a faint whistling sound, followed by a vicious crack. Clare felt nothing, and for a confused moment she wondered if she had been hit and numbed by the impact.

  Only when Nicholas drew the whip back and struck again did she realize that she had not been the target. The thong slashed savagely across the painted face of his dead wife.

  He snarled, "Get rid of it. Now!"

  He spun around and stalked from the room, slamming the door with a force that rattled the glass chimneys of the lamps.

  Stunned, Clare sank into a chair. She had expected that he would react to the portrait with surprise, perhaps grief, and she had mentally prepared a little speech about coming to terms with his loss and getting on with his life. But his fury left her previous assumptions in tatters. It was possible that his fury was a result of a husband's grief and guilt—but the expression on his face had been far more akin to hate than love.

  Hands shaking, she rang for Williams. He appeared promptly, expression wary. "His lordship didn't like the redecoration?"

  "He loved the way the drawing room looks. It was the portrait that he hated." She indicated the painting. "It needs to be removed. Immediately."

  The butler's eyes widened when he saw that the portrait had a neat X slashed across Lady Tregar's beautiful face. His gaze slanted over to Clare, but he asked no questions. "I'll take it down right now. Do you want the space left blank?"

  Clare made an effort to think clearly. "Hang that painting of the old castle against a sunset. It's about the same size."

  Then she went upstairs and ordered a bath. This time Dilys had help in bringing up the hot water, and both girls were talking cheerfully. The house was coming alive.

  The steaming water eased her anxiety as well as her sore muscles. She decided to proceed with the evening as if the flare-up hadn't happened. That meant dressing and making herself available as a dinner companion—always assuming that Nicholas was talking to her after what had happened.

  After drying herself, she dressed her hair more severely than the night before. She had to
wear the same blue gown, since she owned nothing else that was suitable. Braced for trouble, she went down to dinner.

  The morning room was empty when she reached it, but Nicholas appeared as the clock began striking six. He was dressed as impeccably as the night before. "Shall we go into dinner directly? I'm anxious to test the cook's skill."

  She felt cowardly gratitude that he seemed willing to pretend that the scene in the drawing room hadn't taken place. But when she took his arm, she became aware of the tenseness of the muscles beneath his elegant black sleeve. His anger had not abated, but at least it wasn't directed at her.

  He began to relax as dinner was served by Williams and one of the newly hired footmen. After the food had been placed on the table and the two servants were about to withdraw, Nicholas said, "Williams, I understand that you contributed substantially to the improvements in the drawing room. Well done."

  The butler blushed pink with pleasure and shot a grateful glance at Clare. "Thank you, my lord. It was my pleasure."

  Clare had to admire Nicholas, who had obviously learned that a few appreciative words were an effective way of earning loyalty. From what she had heard, it was a lesson that the old earl had never mastered.

  As Nicholas carved the joint, he remarked, "Roast lamb again, but this time cooked as it should be. A suet crust with mountain ash berry jelly on the side, I believe?"

  "Exactly. One of Mrs. Howell's specialties."

  The roast potatoes were crisp and hot, the asparagus tender, and the sautéed trout known as gwyniad flaked delicately away from the bone. It was the best meal Clare had had in months. If Nicholas had sneered at the simplicity of the food, she would have been tempted to pour the leeks in cheese sauce over his head, but he ate with obvious enjoyment.

  After having second helpings of everything, he pushed his plate away with a happy sigh. "Double Mrs. Howell's salary."

  Clare almost dropped her fork. "But you don't know how much she's earning."

  "Whatever it is, she's worth more."

  "As you wish, my lord." She smiled. "Yesterday's unsuccessful cook, Gladys, is now the head housemaid. She's excellent at cleaning."

  He chuckled and poured himself more wine, then began describing what he had accomplished in Swansea. When he was finished, Clare outlined the arrangements she had made in the household, and told him of the mine visit that was scheduled for the next day. It was a curiously domestic conversation.

  The servants silently cleared away the dishes and brought hot coffee while Clare and Nicholas discussed what needed to be done next. She was surprised when the clock struck ten. Feeling suddenly tired, she got to her feet. "It's been a busy day. I'm going to bed now."

  He said softly, "Come here."

  Her fatigue instantly vanished in a surge of wary anticipation; given what had happened that afternoon, she had half expected him to forgo his kiss.

  He pushed his chair away from the table but remained seated. When she was close enough, he caught her hand and pulled her toward him until she was standing by his chair. With his face a few inches below hers, she saw how ridiculously long his eyelashes were. He really was too handsome to be believable.

  Still holding her hand, he said lazily, "Where shall I kiss you tonight?"

  The fact that her leg was pressed against his hard thigh undermined her judgment. Trying for her best schoolmistress voice, she said, "I assume the question is rhetorical because you've already made up your mind."

  He smiled. "Not yet."

  His gaze went to her throat, where he had kissed her the night before, and she felt her pulse beat harder. When his gaze shifted to her mouth, she touched her tongue to her lower lip. Surely tonight he would kiss her on the mouth.

  He surprised her again, this time by pressing his lips into her hand. At first he simply exhaled softly into the sensitive flesh, his breath a warm caress. Then his tongue began teasing the center of her palm. "A woman's body is a symphony," he murmured, "and every part of you is an instrument crying out to be played."

  Her fingers curled involuntarily and brushed his cheek. Under the dark, smoothly shaven skin she felt the faint prickle of whiskers, a texture that was startlingly erotic in its maleness.

  His firm lips moved higher and he drew her little finger into his mouth. Pressure, heat, and moisture, a dimly understood essence of desire. Her breath quickened and her body slackened. As if she were mesmerized, she drifted lower until she settled on his knee. Dimly she realized that her behavior was appalling, but she had no more volition than a leaf in the wind.

  His mouth traced a path down to the pale fragile skin inside her wrist. Enchanted, she gave a breathy exhalation and relaxed against him. With her free hand, she stroked his hair. Ebony softness, thick, sensual, alive.

  Once more she experienced the feeling of melting, and she wondered helplessly how he could reduce her to this state so quickly. She knew she should call a halt, but the yielding warmth flowing through her was so gently delicious that she couldn't bear to end it.

  Until she realized that his other hand was on her thigh, and he was slowly stroking upward. For the space of a heartbeat, she considered letting him continue until he reached the throbbing between her thighs. He would ease it...

  Then sanity returned. "Enough!" She scrambled off his lap, staggering in her haste to get away. She almost shrieked when he grabbed her wrist, but he was merely keeping her from falling.

  "Nowhere near enough, but tomorrow is another day." As he released her wrist, his breathing was also faster than normal. "Sleep well, Clarissima."

  She stared at him with wide, stark eyes, like a deer cornered by a hunter. Then, as she had the night before, she picked up a candle and hastened from the room.

  He lifted his napkin from the table and absently began folding it. She was unlike any other woman he'd ever known; certainly she was nothing like Caroline....

  He had forgotten about the portrait, or rather, had blocked its existence from memory. It was a damnably accurate likeness, and seeing it unexpectedly was almost as great a shock as it would have been to see Caroline herself. Foolish of him to think that he could forget her while he was living in this house.

  Finding that he had twisted the linen napkin into a noose, he tossed it onto the table in disgust. Far better to think about Clare and her sweet femininity than about the past.

  When they had begun their little game, he had been able to objectively consider the fact that he might fail to seduce her, but that was no longer an acceptable outcome. This was one game he was going to win. In the meantime, he would indulge in the one activity that had always provided solace. He got to his feet and headed for the most distant corner of the house.

  * * *

  When Clare reached the safety of her bedchamber, she threw open a casement window and inhaled a lungful of cool, moist air. Outside a gentle spring rain was falling, and the steadiness helped calm her nerves. Ruefully, she thought that no one in Penreith would recognize her as the cool, collected schoolmistress to whom they had entrusted their children.

  She was beginning to think that Nicholas really was the devil; he certainly was a genius at offering temptation. The trouble was that she reacted to Nicholas with her senses. She must learn to use her mind, be rational instead of emotional. Then she would be able to resist him.

  It sounded so easy when he wasn't around.

  Leaving the window open, she changed into her nightgown and slid into the wide bed. It took time for her to relax, but eventually the restful beat of rain began to lull her to sleep.

  As she drifted between waking and slumber, a whisper of music began weaving through the raindrops, like fragments of a dream. At first she simply enjoyed it.

  Then realization of the improbability jarred her to wakefulness. How could there be music in the middle of the night in an almost empty house? And such music—a delicate tune as elusive as fairy song.

  The hair at the nape of her neck began to prickle as she tried to remember if there had ever been
talk of ghosts at Aberdare. Not that she believed in ghosts, of course.

  She slipped out of bed, went to the open window, and listened hard. At first she heard nothing but rain and the distant bleat of a sheep. Then another haunting phrase brushed the edges of her hearing, a sound as profoundly Welsh as the stony hills that guarded the valley. And though she heard it through the night air, it seemed to originate in the house.

  While many of the younger servants would be moving into the house the next day, tonight there were only six people sleeping at Aberdare. She wondered if Williams might be a musician who practiced in the middle of the night. But he had grown up in the village, and she had never heard that he was unusually musical.

  With a sigh, she lit a candle and donned her shoes and her old wool robe. Curiosity about the music would keep her awake, so she might as well try to locate the source.

  Candle in hand, she unlocked her door and stepped into the hall. The flame danced in the drafts, and the wavering shadows and drumming raindrops made her feel that she had wandered into a Gothic melodrama. She shivered and briefly considered waking Nicholas, but dismissed the idea. The Demon Earl naked in bed was far more dangerous than any ghost. Soft-footed, she set out through the darkened house.

  Her quest led her to a room in the most distant corner of the ground floor. A faint light showed under the door, which she found reassuring; presumably ghosts didn't need lamps.

  Cautiously she turned the knob. When the door was half open, she halted in astonishment. The inhabitant of the room was no phantom.

  But a ghost would have surprised her less.

  Chapter 8

  Since a covered pianoforte stood in the shadows, Clare assumed that she had found the music room, but it was Nicholas who drew her fascinated gaze. He sat on a chair by the flickering fire, his face dreamy and a small harp resting against his left shoulder. In contrast to the stillness of his expression, his fingers danced across the metal strings, calling forth a melody that rang like singing bells.