Unveiling Love: A Regency Romance (A London Regency Romantic Suspense Tale Book 3)

by Vanessa Riley

  "Where's their father?"

  "In the last guest room. It was far too late to send them away. Once he knew of Miller, he wasn't going to leave women in the house alone, unprotected. With Mama in the other guest room, all the beds upstairs are full."

  He sucked in a breath and climbed the rest of the stairs. "Then I'll sleep in the master's bed chamber." He patted her arm and led her to the rooms.

  She reached for his shoulder. "But the children."

  Sliding out of his tattered coat, he undid the buttons to his vest as if he'd strip right in the open. "I'm talking of your room, maybe I should say Pharaoh-in-training's room. I'm going to sleep in that wide bed of yours."

  She'd pushed him to the edge. He'd lost his reason. The candlelight of the sconce reflected on his chest, a tuft of curly hair peeking from his opened shirt.

  "You do need to rest, and Mr. Miller is expecting to see you in the morning."

  "My friend's truth can wait. I wish to stretch out on a mattress so I can walk without a limp when the sun rises." He held out his hand to her. "You need to rest, too. That is the most important thing."

  She studied his hunched posture. His hip must be aching.

  "Hesitant? We are partners in this thing. I'm sure we can sleep platonically. You can stay to your side, right? And if you are destined to be barefoot and pregnant, keep those cold toes off me."

  A soft chuckle left her mouth. If a foolhardy notion was the price to keep his anger at bay or even offer the remote chance she'd not awaken alone, it had to be acceptable. "But you will stay through the night in my bed? Not get up to work?"

  "I am tired enough to be immobile for several days. Hopefully, you don't mind."

  The problem was she didn't mind, not one whit.

  Barrington studied the lift in her brow, the sparkle in her eye. She wasn't saying no. The notion was bacon-brained. An invention of the moment, an off-color joke created after discovering she'd given away his bed.

  He yawned and let tired air eke from his lungs, probably the only thing keeping him upright at this point. Leaning against her door, he lifted his head. "Well, Pharaoh II, do you get to have a roommate? I don't think I can make it down to my study."

  She licked her lips and raised a hand to him. "Yes."

  He clasped her palm and stared into her violet eyes. He had had a completely horrible day and now she stood looking at him agreeing to foolishness.

  His defenses melted a little.

  Her chilled fingers warmed within his palm. If there had been no vicar and no clod-headed response to her admission of being abducted, would Barrington still possess all of her heart?

  She opened her door and led him to a chair by her vanity.

  A laugh or maybe a yell welled inside, itching his skin. His intention to go upstairs to retrieve a nightshirt now turned into an opportunity to stretch his limbs against a firm mattress, near a soft wife. Maybe he needed to be ridiculous all the time around her in order to regain her love.

  "You'll need something to wear." She picked at her sleeve as her gaze tangled with his. Her tidy chignon had shed a few raven locks that curled near her eyes.

  He plucked at his musty shirt. This was a bad idea. With her sensitivity to smells, he must be a wonderful bouquet of pavement and perspiration. Worse, blood. "I think—"

  "Sit." She put the jewelry box on her bedside table and lit a small candle. "I'll be right back." She eased from the room.

  Struggling not to wake the house with his whimpers, he pulled off one boot then the other. He dropped the sweaty leather with a gentle plop, placed his elbows on the glass surface and massaged his forehead. He looked horrid, felt dreadful. Someone had tried to kill him. There was no doubt about it.

  How would she have fared when they told her? Would she be as strong as she was tonight or would the anxiety have hurt their child? She always feared something would happen to him. His shriveled heart lurched lower into his gut.

  When she'd opened the jewelry box, he saw her heart shining in her eyes. She didn't hate him, but there was fear lighting her countenance. She was afraid to love him, to be vulnerable with him again. How would he ever regain her trust?

  The door opened. Amora returned with his nightshirt hung about her neck like a shawl. In her arms, she juggled a candle and a bowl.

  She looked absolutely beautiful with her brow furrowed in concentration. More raven tresses spilled from her chignon. "Little Jack's sleeping in the crib. We fetched it from the attic."

  She'd been up in the attic again. So much for James' hiding tactics. Maybe Barrington should have something done about the space. That sounded like a project for his mother-in-law.

  "Jackson looks like an angel." There were tears in her voice.

  He had to keep her from sadness or this next child wouldn't sleep in it. Swallowing to extinguish his own angst, Barrington powered to stand a little too quickly and staggered. "I'll go clean up."

  "No, you will let me take care of you. You only do so when you're anxious, like before a trial. Sit and accept my help. The Pharaoh-in-training has spoken."

  Her tone sounded stern and her gaze locked upon his.

  Maybe giving her purpose instilled determination. With more confidence, she might trust her heart and love him again. He dropped back into the chair and muffled another whimper. "Yes, ma'am."

  Setting the candle on the floor, she took a pitcher from the vanity and poured it into her pan. A small tan bar floated atop the water. Her fingers settled on his shins. She wrenched off his stockings.

  "You don't have to--"

  "Quiet, Barrington. You'll wake up the children."

  He closed his eyes as the soft damp cloth wiped against his skin. The coolness of the water, the gentle massaging of her thumbs against his heel… A sigh of contentment left his mouth. Joy in the midst of a storm.

  The sound of water dripping from her wrung cloth filled his ear. She anointed his face and neck with bergamot.

  He opened his eyes to witness her hovering over him, tending to the bruise on his skull. Such a beautiful face. She was always so generous when he let her fuss over him. She poured more water onto a cloth, giving it a good soaking then wiped into his hair.

  There was something in Ephesians he'd read about washing her with the word, not vice versa, but Barrington didn't mind. She needed to feel of use to him, and he needed her.

  It wasn't clear if she took off his shirt or if he helped. It didn't matter, not with the circular strokes of the cotton rag along his rib cage tracing the makeshift bandage.

  "He hurt you badly." She brushed a tear from her cheek, then kept working. "What's under the dressing? Nastier bruises?"

  "Let's not think of it. I'm all patched up because of my cousin."

  She looked away, staring at his feet. A small sob mixed with another quivering breath. "I always knew he'd… you'd get hurt."

  "I'm fine, Amora. You needn't cry."

  With a nod, she kept working, refreshing the tight muscles of his back.

  Regardless of how unsettled things were between them, there had to be some love inside her for him and when it mattered she wasn't too fearful to show it. That had to be love.

  Maybe it could grow with their baby.

  He slid a hand under her chin and lifted it. Gazing deeply into her eyes, he sought to slip through the walls shrouding her heart. "I'm here, Amora. I'm alive. I haven't left us."

  She nodded, then handed him the washcloth and nightshirt. "You're almost ready to be my roommate. Hurry up, then dress."

  She disappeared behind the gauzy curtain framing the canopy of the bed. Nothing could be better than the soft lawn fabric or her firm mattress.

  Grunting, he changed into his long sleep garment and stashed his dusty clothes in a neat pile on the chair. He took his time with slow careful steps and moved to her bed. He climbed upon her mattress.

  Eyeing him, Amora fluffed her pillow, then settled down upon it. "You know I sleep with a candle burning. No snuffing it."

>   "Yes, ma'am." He tugged at their shared blanket, marveling at how wide her eyes seemed in the dim light, how the small hint of smile upon her lips made her so lovely.

  "Oh, I make no promises about where my toes end up. You're usually quite warm. Thanks for my present."

  "You're welcome, and I'll be here when you awaken. I think that was the final term of the negotiation."

  That former hint of a smile now covered her whole face. She snuggled into the bed sheets, rolling onto her side.

  Her mindset, her composure possessed confidence. It had to be due to his allowing her to help. Giving her the sense he trusted her seemed to mean more than his affection.

  Yet, he knew in his hurting gut she'd never be the carefree girl he proposed to so long ago. There was too much hurt in her to ever let his love enter without suspicion. Could he be content like this, not knowing if she'd awaken remembering his love or his folly? Maybe.

  When she inched a little closer, he had half a mind to reach out and stroke her hair or to pull her into his arms, but that wasn't part of their bargain. Her heart was still very closed to his love. The vicar or the gulf of problems strangling their marriage held it at bay.

  He stretched and shut his lids. Gerald Miller, Hessing, Beakes, the mystery, the man who tried to kill him; he'd figure out what to do with all of them tomorrow. For now, he'd revel in the feel of Amora's toes nestled along his shin and pretend it was a small piece of her soul reaching out to his.

  Chapter Nine: Images of the Mind

  The old canvasses and paints retrieved from the attic were just what Amora needed to stop fretting over Barrington. For a week, he claimed to be fine, but let her feed him and make him hot tea, even fuss about his pillows. That should've been a sign at how hurt his attacker left him.

  Today, she'd caught sight of the wound under the wrappings when Mr. Solemn visited. She might be otherworldly, but she wasn't stupid. Barrington had been stabbed close to his heart. He could've died.

  Forcing the dark images of every threat, every curse of her monster back into the shadows of her mind, she stood behind her easel and feathered in more streaks of amber. The painting had to have enough light. She needed to focus on it, not the darkness of what had happened or what could've happened.

  With a final stroke, she achieved enough sun filtering between the limbs of the grove of trees she'd formed. Only having been to Vaux Hall once, it was difficult to be sure she'd captured the park just right, but the colors and forms felt true.

  She stippled more red for the setting sun, as she listened to the light chuckles coming from the dining room and the occasional fall of a woman's slippers. But, no heavy heels pounded down the stairs. When she heard that deep noise, that would mean Barrington had recovered his strength. Deep in her soul, she knew he needed to be fully well. The truth of the past was coming, and everyone would need to be filled with strength to face it.

  Her insides twisted with an extra portion of guilt. She loved fussing over Barrington. She liked waking up seeing him there. That was something he rarely did, for he always arose early to review trial notes.

  Slippers clicked on the floorboards.

  A light tick, tick produced her mother at the threshold. "Painting again? May I see?"

  Quicker than she should, Amora shook her head. It wasn't perfect yet, and she wasn't sure she could weather her mother's criticism. "Not until it is done."

  A pout swallowed Mama's lips. She tugged on her rich tanned gloves and started rolling an egret feather bonnet that matched her deep chocolate carriage dress. "Well, you seem more relaxed. All must be well in the Norton household. Have you two come to terms?"

  Amora dipped her brush into her cup of water and stepped away from the canvas. What could she say? What words could hide the turmoil twisting inside her? She lifted her gaze again and offered the truth. "He said no separation."

  Mama eyes widened as she nodded. "Seems right with a baby to come, but you…you don't want a family with your husband?"

  With a shrug, she let the questions fade and turned to the window. She hooked her fingers within the lace loop of the new curtain's fringe. Mama had installed them yesterday.

  "Amora, you didn't answer."

  She couldn't share her thoughts with her mother or her husband. No answers lingered inside. It wasn't easy to cling to the warmth that stirred within her middle, not when she kept seeing a picture of Barrington looking over an empty crib. "What do you have planned today?"

  "Stop it, Amora. You don't have to look for sadness. Look at the bowls of ice your husband has James bring you everyday. That treat alone should bring you joy. He's done this everyday since Vaux Hall, a week."

  Pivoting toward her mother's voice, she tried to lift a smile, for the half eaten bowl of lemon ice was a treat lessening her nausea. It was a tangible, touchable, here-now reason for joy. Barrington was so kind, thinking of her discomfort when he had been so badly beaten.

  Her heart trembled, which led to shaking palms. Barr was alive, sleeping upstairs in her chambers. Not dead, not missing. He was lucky. They were lucky.

  Mama touched her face, fingering Amora's cheek with the butter soft leather of her gloves. "You have days, a few more months to figure everything out. But you will come together for this babe. You will figure out a path. Family is everything. It is stronger than a stubborn a la mula."

  Footfalls pounded, coming closer.

  Her pulse ticked. She tried to seem aloof, wiping a golden stain from her fingertips while peering toward the hall. The armor around her heart had to remain intact. Wanting Barrington would make her vulnerable to his opinions again. How long would it take for her to wilt under his practiced glare?

  Mrs. Gretling pranced forward, whipping her rags as if they were on fire. She stopped at the entry. "Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Tomàs, I'm late going off to the foundlings. Sure you both don't want to come? The change will do you both good."

  Lost in her fretting, Amora shook her head. Her spirit needed to settle. With Miller in the basement and Barr hurt, she couldn't lose her wits. She patted Mama's fingers then slipped again behind the safety of her easel. "Mr. Norton hasn't been feeling well. I'll stay and look after him. Mama's off to Cheapside."

  "Yes, Mrs. Norton. The children miss ye." Mrs. Gretling shuffled down the hall.

  She did miss the Foundling children. Her heart was filled with love for them and Jackson and Rebecca. She could touch them and see them laugh…and watch them breathe. She smoothed her smock over her small stomach. Was there hope for own?

  The brass knocker sounded on the front door.

  Mrs. Gretling pivoted and headed to the entry. "James is running errands for the master. I think he's at the optician since he's already delivered your morning ice."

  A set of boot heels clicked along the polished planks. She pushed at a falling tendril hiding her disappointment that the noise wasn't coming from the stairs. Barrington still hadn't risen.

  Samuel poked his head inside the parlor. "Morning, ladies. Well, well the master painter is at her craft. Rebecca will be sorry to have missed seeing your technique."

  Mama headed to the mantle and pushed her Isis idol closer to the garniture vases. "She is quite good. Maybe you with your silliness can get a peek."

  With a hand on his deep indigo waistcoat, he sauntered to the easel. He whipped up her painting before Amora could stop him. "You are quite the artist. It looks like a spot I've seen in Clanville. Where is it? Oh, it will come to me."

  "No, Vicar. That's the park we visited. Vaux Hall."

  His forehead wrinkled. His countenance reddened with questions. "No, this is Clanville. I'm almost positive."

  She came to his side, staring at the painting for a long time. It was familiar. She took her brush, dipped it into umber oil and feathered a shadow. Within an outline of her dark paint, a hidden structure became visible with her painted tree line. What was it?

  Something unlocked in her mind. Images of that day, that moment she was taken, started to flow.<
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  "Amora, what is it? You're shaking."

  She heard her mother's voice, but couldn't respond. The images were too strong. She fisted her hands and poised to fight. The monster wouldn't take her this time.

  "Sweetheart." Her mother clasped her wrists. "Why are you painting the Priory?"

  In unison, Samuel and Amora repeated, "Priory."

  Was that it? Not Vaux Hall?

  Samuel eased the canvas back onto her easel. "Do you want to talk about it?"

  Her heart beat an uneven, wobbly gait. She lowered her arms. "I don't."

  She swished her brush in her small cup of water and watched the color bleed from the bristles. As if she didn't already know Mother's intended destination, she asked, "How many warehouses will you visit today?"

  Mama faked a smile, but her cheek held a tick. "The vicar has agreed to take me to as many as he can manage without falling into complaints." She fished into her reticule and produced a piece of foolscap in her hand. "Mr. Norton has requested some decorative items. Him, Mr. Dove gray asking for color."

  Mama's delight for decorating should be infectious, but Amora kept painting, kept thinking of the Priory and how she had painted the ancient monastery the day she was abducted, as well. What could be the reason for that?

  Too focused on stippling her brush strokes to unlock her unanswered question. Was this where the monster took her?

  As if Samuel understood her unease, he held out his arm. "Come along, Mrs. Tomàs. Let's leave the artist to her work. I'm sure there are dozens of fabric warehouses calling for your presence. The children are well ensconced with my housekeeper, so nothing shall keep us from miles of embellishments."

  "Go on, Mama. All will be well." That had to be true. That hope had to stay inside her, keeping the baby nourished and safe.

  Samuel took her mother's hand and placed it about his forearm, wrinkling the midnight-blue sleeve of his tailcoat. "Well, Mrs. Tomàs, I'll even take you to an apothecary and suffer through your selection of weeds."