She admitted that her time with Luc had been short, but even now she could not envision a morning not waking in his arms. The thought of a day without seeing his beloved face filled her with fear, and the force and depth of the love she felt for him terrified her. She half-smiled and shook her head. Not once had Luc declared that he loved her, but she felt loved. She couldn’t explain it. There were none of the flowery compliments that Charles had bestowed upon her in the beginning; yet every time Luc’s eyes touched her, she felt as if he caressed her and the sound of his deep voice warmed her, wrapping around her like a rich, ermine cloak. Gillian did not consciously make comparisons between Charles and Luc, and yet she was aware that there was a world of difference between the two men. Silas had been right about that.
Charles had been, she’d thought, an excellent lover; she had enjoyed his lovemaking, but when Luc touched her ... She sighed dreamily. When Luc touched her, when his mouth claimed hers, when that elegant body of his took hers, she discovered that there was lovemaking and then there was lovemaking... . Beneath her dove-gray gown her nipples tightened into hard, round little berries, and she was embarrassingly aware of a pleasurable ache and a growing dampness between her thighs. She was, she decided, a lascivious little slut. But only, only for Luc ...
Over the rim of her cup, she studied him, this tall man she had married. He hadn’t said that he loved her, but she sensed that he did. At present, it was unspoken, but it was there in the consideration and generosity he showed her every day. Like a warm, protective cocoon, she felt it in every look he gave her, in his kiss, in his passionate lovemaking, and when he was ready, she was serenely confident, he would give her the one thing she wanted more than she had wanted anything in the world ... his love. She could be deluding herself, or being arrogant, but she didn’t think so. Luc did love her. He just hadn’t, she thought with a soft smile, told her yet. But when he did ... Her heart thudded with anticipation of that magical moment.
“I’m sure this isn’t what you thought would be your first public appearance after your marriage, is it?” asked Cornelia, breaking into Gillian’s thoughts.
Jerking her mind to the present, Gillian put down her cup and murmured, “No. But tragedies don’t, I’m afraid, look at calendars. They happen without warning and with no consideration of the timing.”
Emily and Anne had their heads together, lost in a discussion about the coming baby, but Cornelia’s attention was fixed on Gillian. “Yes, I imagine you are, more than others, too well aware of the unpredictability of sudden death.”
A hollow feeling echoed through Gillian, but she met Cornelia’s hazel-eyed gaze. “You are,” she said, “referring to my hus—my first husband’s murder.”
“Weren’t you?”
Gillian’s chin lifted. “As a matter of fact, no. If I can help it, I don’t think of that night at all. It was a painful time.”
Cornelia’s eyes moved intently over her face, studying each feature, and Gillian had the curious feeling that the old woman was coming to some conclusion about her. Gillian stilled, hardly daring to breathe, and just when she thought she could not bear this intense scrutiny one moment longer, Cornelia nodded as if to herself and said, “I’m sure it was. More than anyone could realize. I apologize for bringing up distressing memories.”
“Th-th-thank y-y-you,” Gillian stammered, feeling she had passed an arduous test.
Cornelia smiled at her, a dazzling smile Gillian had never seen before. Patting her cheek, Cornelia said, “You’re a good gel. Luc is to be congratulated.” Before Gillian could reply, Cornelia’s gaze shifted and she said, “Ah, and here he comes to whisk you away, no doubt, but before he does, if you don’t mind I’d like a private word with him.”
“Of c-c-course,” Gillian managed, still off guard.
Luc had come to fetch Gillian, but upon reaching the ladies, Cornelia stood up and, leaning heavily on her cane, said quietly, “A word with you, young man, before you leave with your charming bride.”
If Luc was surprised he didn’t show it, but after giving Gillian a reassuring smile, he took the arm Cornelia offered and escorted her from the room, leaving Gillian, Emily and Anne to stare after them.
“Hmm, I wonder what that is all about,” muttered Emily.
“I think it might be something that Hugh told her,” offered Anne.
Gillian could have kissed Emily when, staring hard at Anne, Emily demanded, “What could Hugh have told Cornelia that she has to talk to Luc in private?”
Anne sighed. “He didn’t tell me. I just know that he received a letter from Cornelia several days ago and that he has been gone this past week. I think his absence had something to do with Cornelia’s letter, but he wouldn’t say. In fact, he’d just returned to Parkham when news of Jeffery’s death reached us.”
“Oh!” Emily said in an odd voice and promptly lost interest in the subject.
Gillian’s heart clenched and she thought she’d faint from the pain. In her mind, there was only one reason Cornelia could have for speaking privately with Luc and she didn’t doubt for a moment what it was ... Charles’s murder.
Gillian was correct.
Seated in a blue mohair channel-back chair, her hands resting on her cane, Cornelia said bluntly, “I wrote to Hugh and asked him to visit some people for me. I wanted to find out what happened at Welbourne’s hunting lodge the night Charles Dashwood was murdered.”
Luc stiffened. His face set, he asked, “And did you find out anything interesting?”
“I did and you’re not going to like any of it,” Cornelia warned. “Worse, it’s gossip.” She smiled tightly. “But after a visit from Hugh, I don’t think that Winthrop will be mentioning it to anyone else.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”
Luc took a step forward, his hand clenched into a fist, a dangerous glitter in the azure eyes. “What,” he asked grimly, “did Hugh learn?”
Cornelia told him. When she finished speaking, Luc stared at her, white-faced with fury.
“Sacristi! Monstrous! What sort of a quel salaud was this Charles Dashwood?” he demanded. “To offer Gillian ...” His rage overcame him and he could not speak. He took several agitated steps around the room before coming back to stand before Cornelia. Breathing hard, he asked, “And this Winthrop? Where is he? I will kill him myself.”
“No, you won’t,” responded Cornelia calmly. When Luc shot her a look full of fire and fury, she said, “Of course, if you want your wife’s name connected to more infamy, by all means, do so. I can give you his direction.”
Luc rocked back on his heels as if a bucket of ice water had been thrown in his face. He regained control of himself. “Yes, of course, you are right.” His eyes fastened on hers. “He will say nothing? Ever?”
She smiled. “Not if he wants to live. Hugh made it clear that not only would you come after him, but Barnaby as well, and most likely Mathew and Simon, and if they failed to kill him, he would himself.”
Luc took another deep breath. “And the vowels? Where are they?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. Winthrop claims he lost them to Canfield.”
“Canfield! Mon Dieu! Canfield is dead. They could be anywhere.”
“I’m afraid that much is true, but until they surface ...”
He eyed Cornelia with hostility. “Do you think she killed him? Offering a night with her for his vowels is not something many women would stomach.” Harshly, he said, “It gives her a reason to have killed him.”
“It gave her a reason to go looking for him with murder on her mind,” Cornelia agreed. When Luc would have argued, she raised a finger and went on, “From others Hugh learned that the room where Charles was found was in shambles. Overturned tables, chairs, etc. It was apparent a violent struggle had taken place. Charles Dashwood was a man about your size—Gillian would never have been able to cause the damage done to that room. Even with rage driving her, Charles could have easily overpowered her, tossed her aside, if
you will. The condition of the room, as well as being found unconscious and the lack of a knife or a weapon were the reasons she was never brought to trial.” Her eyes met his steadily as she said gently, “To answer your question. No. I do not believe that she murdered him. It’s my opinion that she is telling the truth and has been unjustly vilified.” She smiled at him. “And we’re going to do something about that, aren’t we?”
Luc smiled dangerously, the azure eyes glinting. “Indeed, we are, Madame. I shall find this villain and prove my wife’s innocence.”
Beyond answering her questions in monosyllables, Luc was silent on the drive back to Ramstone, his thoughts clearly somewhere else. Gillian glanced at him several times, uneasy with the grim line of his lips and the rigid cast to his jaw. She desperately wanted to know about the conversation with Cornelia, but coward-like, she could not bring herself to broach the subject. By the time they reached home and he helped her down from the carriage, fear and anxiety were tearing her apart. Cornelia had obviously related something that had disturbed Luc and guiltily she could think of only one event that would cause his reaction: Charles’s murder.
With exquisite politeness Luc escorted her inside the house. Leaving her in the foyer, he said, “I have some business to attend. I’ll see you later.”
Gillian watched his tall form disappear down the hall, wanting to call him back, wanting to scream that no matter what Cornelia had told him, she was innocent. Innocent!
The moment was lost, and she was left staring at an empty hallway. Dispiritedly, she climbed the stairs to her rooms. She wanted to believe otherwise, but she could not help but think that the specter of Charles’s death was about to destroy her only chance for happiness. What she found waiting for her when she entered her rooms confirmed all her fears and suspicions.. . .
Chapter 20
The envelope was lying in the pewter salver resting on a small table in the sitting room that separated her bedroom from Luc’s. Her name was scrawled across the front of it, but Gillian did not recognize the handwriting.
Puzzled, she picked it up and carried it with her into her bedroom, wondering who had written to her. A premonition shivered through her. Whatever the envelope held, it wasn’t, she was certain, something good.
Nan Burton was waiting for her in the bedroom, and laying down the envelope for the moment, she allowed Nan to help her undress. Nan was full of a proposed trip to London Luc had suggested only yesterday, and half-listening to her chatter, Gillian stared at the innocuous envelope, trying to figure out who had written her and why.
“Oh, Madame! It will be so exciting,” Nan declared, her eyes sparkling as she whisked the dove-gray gown off of Gillian and brought forth an older gown of mulberry wool. “Imagine, the gowns and the furniture you will buy! It will be wonderful to finally have proper wardrobes in which to hang your clothes. Master Luc is being most generous, isn’t he? And to think the viscount has offered us his town house to stay in while we are in London.” A blissful expression on her face, Nan burbled, “I can tell you I am so over the moon, I can hardly sleep at night. London!”
Her clothing changed and her hair re-combed, Gillian dismissed Nan. Picking up the envelope, she sat on her bed and studied it a moment longer. Taking a deep breath, she carefully opened it. She shook out the folded piece of paper that had been within the envelope. As she did so, another, smaller sheet of paper fell free and floated to the floor.
Reaching down, she picked it up, her heart leaping to her throat when she realized what she held in her hand. One of the vowels Charles had given to Winthrop.
Dazed, she stared at it for a long time, her eyes going over again and again Charles’s bold signature. Giving herself a shake and putting the vowel on the bed beside her, she read the note that had been with Charles’s vowel.
You have something I want, Charles’s last gift to you. As you can see from the gift I have enclosed, I have something you want. South of the village, there is an abandoned fisherman’s cottage about a half mile beyond the fork in the Coast Road. Meet me there alone Tuesday afternoon at four o’clock. Tell no one.
There was no signature. She read and reread the note, an uneasy hope rising in her breast, wanting to believe that she would finally have her hands on Charles’s vowels and that Luc would never have to know... . Because of Silas’s generosity, she breathed easier, knowing that she had the ability to wipe out the debt should the vowels have been presented for payment. The whole notion of Luc knowing about the vowels made her cringe and made her willing to do anything to keep them from him.
Part of her knew she was being foolish, but the vowels were all tied up with Charles’s ugly bargain with Winthrop and Charles’s murder that night—anything connected to that time filled her with revulsion and fright. Canfield’s possession of the vowels had shown her just how dangerous their existence could be, and the knowledge that they now lay in the hands of someone else brought all those emotions roiling back, making her ill and afraid. She stared hard at the note, wanting to believe that an opportunity to finally have the vowels in her own hands lay before her, but she was wary.
Charles’s last gift ... for a second she couldn’t think what the writer referred to and she frowned. Charles’s last gift to her ... She stiffened. The brooch! The diamond and topaz brooch she’d worn for the first time on the night Charles had been murdered. Now why, she wondered, would someone be willing to trade a small fortune in vowels for a brooch that could be fashioned and bought for considerably less from any knowledgeable jeweler?
Leaving the bed, she ran over and pawed through her clothes until she found the brooch still pinned to her riding habit. Unpinning it, she walked across the room and, reseating herself on the bed, stared at the winking jewels. Careful examination revealed nothing out of the ordinary about the brooch. There was nothing significant about the arrangement of the precious stones that she could see, nor was there, as she half-hoped, some secret compartment that would hold the answer to why it was so important to the writer of the note.
She’d never cared for the brooch, but she could see that it was a handsome piece of jewelry and that most people would find it lovely. It was an expensive piece, but not worth anything near the amount represented by Charles’s vowels, so why was someone willing to exchange one for the other? And why be so mysterious about it? Why not simply request an interview with her and offer her the vowels in exchange for the brooch? Why want her to meet alone? And the warning to tell no one disturbed her as nothing else had. It was ominous and told her that this would be no simple exchange. The sensation of danger was overpowering.
Hearing the steps of someone crossing the sitting room, she leaped up from the bed and looked around for a place to hide the brooch and the other items. Why she felt the need to hide them escaped her. Whatever the reasons, there was no time; she heard Luc’s voice calling her name almost at the same instant the door to her bedroom opened. She dropped everything to the floor and slid all the items under the bed with one swipe of her foot.
Gillian couldn’t have explained her actions if she’d been placed on the rack. The closest she could come to making any sense of her furtive and out of character reaction was that she was ashamed. Ashamed of everything connected with that night—even if she had been guilty of nothing more than naïveté. Perhaps that was it, she thought as she swung around to face Luc, a smile plastered on her face. She was ashamed that she had ever been that gullible and stupid.
Luc was not gullible or stupid, and one look at Gillian’s face told him that something was amiss. She looked guilty, her face pale, her eyes huge with fright and doing her best to pretend otherwise. Protectiveness rose within him, but he suspected she would repulse any effort on his part to find out what was wrong. And correct it.
Hands behind her back like a child hiding a secret, her head canted to one side, she asked, “H-h-have you f-f-finished your business?”
He nodded, his eyes moving over her expressive face, thinking that he’d like to get hi
s hands on Charles Dashwood for five minutes. Forcing a smile, he said, “Oui. It wasn’t very important.” Running a finger down her cheek, he murmured, “Especially not important enough to keep me from you for very long.”
Gillian giggled, as much from nervousness as amusement.
Luc grinned and cocked a brow. “You find my compliments amusing, Madame wife?”
“No. Never,” she said quietly, her lips rosy and tempting. His gaze traveled down her curvaceous form—a form that delighted him and that after the past several days he knew as well as his own, the shape of her breast, the slope of her hip, the taste, the texture and scent of her skin. Looking at her, seeing the fragility, knowing how much just the sight of her filled him with pleasure, he couldn’t help dwelling with incredulous fury on what Cornelia had related to him this afternoon. Gillian had been Charles’s wife, a creature to be loved and treasured, he mused, and that bastard had been willing to toss her, for a night, to cover his debts, into the arms of another man. Zut! What he wouldn’t give for that five minutes alone with Charles Dashwood. No, he thought savagely, three would be enough to tear him limb from limb.
Something in Luc’s expression alarmed her and Gillian stepped near him, one of her hands caressing his cheek. “Luc? What is it?”
He looked down into her troubled face and his rage vanished, his heart expanding with so much love for her that he feared that his body could not contain it. “It is nothing, ma coeur.” His arms slid around her and he brushed a kiss against her temple. Astonishing both of them, he said, “You are very dear to me.”
Desire Becomes Her Page 33
