by Elisa Braden
But he’d seen disguises before. His mother had worn one until the very end.
Narrowing his gaze, he glanced at Hannah, who lingered near the windows, her hands folded at her waist.
“As I gave my word, Mr. Hawthorn, and I am not inclined to break it, you may be certain of my cooperation,” he said. “However, should I find you alone with my sister again, you will lose far more than my assistance. Understood?”
The other man raised a brow, cast a glance over his shoulder at Hannah and came back grinning. He chuckled and shook his head. “Understood.” His eyes shone with a calculating light. “I also understand you intend to marry Lady Eugenia Huxley tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
Hawthorn glanced about the room, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “This is a fine house, my lord. Fine, indeed. Will you be staying in London awhile after the wedding? Or perhaps returning to …” Hawthorn pretended to thumb through his notes. “Ah, yes. Dorsetshire. Primvale Castle. Grand name.”
Already, Phineas was growing weary of the charade. Could the man not simply speak plainly? But then, the knife in his skull made him want to gouge out his own eyes, so his patience was short.
Additionally, there had been the incident with Eugenia. The black coal burned bright as his mind touched on the memory—her smile, brilliant with amused affection, aimed down at a man wrongly touching what rightly belonged to Phineas—but once again, he forced it to recede. To be ruled by his pain or his anger or that unidentified blackness was to be rendered weak. He must be strong. For Hannah. For Eugenia. For himself.
“London for several days,” he answered the runner. “Then, we leave for Dorsetshire. You may give the reports to Drayton. He will ensure I receive them.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like for any important documents to be lost. I shall deliver them personally, my lord.”
“Do not trouble yourself.”
“No trouble.” Again, the man glanced back at Hannah. “None at all.” Then, he turned and bowed with a hint of mockery in Hannah’s direction before placing his plain, worn hat upon his head. “Miss Gray. A splendid good morning to you.” He turned back to Phineas and gave a brief nod. “My lord.”
As he departed, Phineas felt as though a wolf had just left the room. Hannah appeared to agree, gliding toward Phineas with a look of relief. It was quickly shadowed by concern. “Phineas,” she sighed. “Your tea. Shall I fetch it for you?”
“No.” He pressed the heel of his hand into his right temple. It didn’t help, but it was something. “It is likely already in my chamber.”
She nodded, the little furrow of concern deepening. “You should lie down.”
“What did he say before I arrived?”
Her lips tightened. Her nose flared. “Nothing important. He is a very … irritating creature.”
“If he calls again whilst I am not here, turn him away and send one of the footmen to follow him until he is well out of Mayfair.”
“He fancies himself charming, I think. I do not find him so.”
Phineas lowered his hand. By God, his head was pounding. And the nausea was now constant.
“I find him presumptuous. And vexing.”
“Will you be all right, little one?” he murmured, focusing his control upon keeping his breakfast where it was.
She blinked. “Yes, of course.” Blinked again. “You should lie down,” she repeated.
He nodded and turned, bracing himself against the doorframe. He paused, losing command of the black coal. It burned and reminded and insisted. “Hannah. I must ask a favor.”
“Anything.”
“I need a list of footmen. All the footmen at Holstoke House and Primvale.”
“Footmen? Well, I suppose I could ask Sackford or Mrs. Varney. But you really should be resting.”
The coal burned hotter. He clenched his jaw against its power. “I must do a bit of … rearranging before tomorrow. Will you—”
Her small hand settled on his arm. “Of course I will.”
“The grooms, too. Groundskeepers.” He frowned, rubbing his temple. “All the male servants, really.”
She sighed. “Very well. Go now, Phineas. Drink your tea. Let tomorrow be tomorrow.”
He wished he could. But at least that strange, black coal had been quieted. Rearranging. Yes. A highly logical answer to an irrational need.
Entering his bedchamber, he passed the handsome footman again. Pleasant young man. Showing deference and concern for his employer.
William was his name. William would have to go.
Phineas closed the door and then the draperies. His valet helped him remove his coat and waistcoat, his boots and cravat. He drank a cup of his tea, hoping this formulation worked better than the last. His valet took the tray away. Finally, Phineas threw back the blankets and sprawled beneath.
His eyes slid closed. Then, in the darkness, she appeared. Mahogany hair loose and gleaming. Cat-like eyes shimmering a challenge. She was naked, her confounding geometry revealed to his gaze.
His heart kicked as his body hardened, defying the pain in his head. He would take her in the garden, just as the sun broke across the horizon. He would see her bathed in gold.
Let tomorrow be tomorrow, Hannah had said.
He did not know how. For, despite the knifing pain, the thing devouring him now was an infernal, inexplicable hunger. Tomorrow would not change it.
But it would make her his. And perhaps, he thought as he stared up at the ceiling and envisioned her in the sweet light of dawn. Perhaps if he applied logic and rationality to the problem, having her would be enough.
*~*~*
From the fringes of the park, he watched the lord enter his house. The man stepped carefully, as though he could not see well. While he was but a dim echo of the goddess who had birthed him, an echo of divinity was better than none at all.
Earlier, a ragged hunter had entered Holstoke House. Polite tip of his hat. Friendly pretense. The Supplicant was not fooled. He’d employed similar tactics, himself. Most people never looked beyond the surface.
Long minutes passed. Before him, Park Lane teemed in the bright light. Gilded carriages and gleaming mounts. Behind him, a parade of vermin displayed their costumes, mimicking gods. They, too, were disguised. Unlike the hunter and the goddess’s son, they pretended to be more than what they were, rather than less.
The black door opened. The hunter stepped out, tucking something into his loose coat. He had the look of a worthy opponent—sharp and savage. Long, swift strides took the hunter along Park Lane. For a moment, the Supplicant considered staying. He must observe Holstoke House with great diligence. A goddess’s son required no less.
But the hunter was of interest. A worthy opponent. Yes.
He adjusted his wig. Gave Holstoke House a final glance. Then, with swift strides of his own, he followed the man in the loose coat. A hunter disguised as a harmless hound. A worthy opponent, indeed.
*~*~*
CHAPTER NINE
“The promise of obedience means little when it has been so recently discarded in favor of satisfying one’s illicit appetites.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to her boon companion, Humphrey, upon said companion’s implied vow of obedience in exchange for another bite of ham.
“To love, cherish, and to obey,” the priest repeated for the second time.
Genie swallowed and gazed up at Holstoke, looming like a green-eyed raven inside a halo of Belgian lace and ivory satin. Dear heaven, what a glower. She really should complete her vows. But the words lodged in her throat as surely as a fish bone.
“My lady,” whispered the priest. “You must repeat this portion as well.”
Holstoke’s hold upon her right hand tightened. His nose flared. His eyes narrowed.
“To—to love, cherish …”
The silence in the church thickened. Her stomach cramped. He refused to look away.
Finally, she forced the words out. “And to obey.”
The remainder
of the vows came easier, thank heaven. Holstoke slid a rather plain ring upon her hand, and they were declared man and wife. They knelt while the priest nattered on about husbandly love and wifely submission. The latter portion was significantly longer than the former, she noted.
Then, at great length and all too soon, it was done.
She was Lady Holstoke.
As they stood and turned to face the church together, she glanced up at her newly minted husband. Something about his demeanor had changed. It was subtle—a softening at the corners of his mouth, a thawing of the ice in his eyes. She blinked, uncertain what to make of it. He seemed eased, as though he’d been ravenous and now was quenched.
After yesterday morning, she’d half expected him to cry off. His coldness had frozen her through, a seamless, impenetrable shell around the man she’d come to know.
But did she know him, really? They’d spent the past six years apart. Certainly, she had changed in that time, and Holstoke had been through a great many hardships. It might explain the odd—and insulting—reaction to Mr. Moody’s silly declaration. Perhaps he’d been remembering Maureen’s rejection in favor of another man.
Yes, perhaps that was it.
A queer ache squeezed her chest. Her eyes drifted to the pew where Maureen and Dunston sat. Maureen, cradling her youngest son, beamed and brushed a tear from her cheek. Dunston looked amused. Again, Genie cast a glance at Holstoke, expecting him to be similarly preoccupied with Maureen. Instead, she found him staring at her. A shiver rippled across her skin.
Organ music played. Kate handed her the bouquet of violets, rosebuds, ivy, and the extraordinary red lilies Holstoke had sent to Berne House that morning. She clutched the flowers and Holstoke’s arm. Took a deep breath and blew upward, rippling her Belgian lace. Silently, she prayed as she’d never prayed before that neither of them regretted their decision. Please, God, she begged. Let him be a passionless sort. For his sake and mine.
An hour later, seated beside Holstoke at the Berne House dining table, she wondered how best to test him. A kiss seemed prudent. But it might be misconstrued as an invitation to retire early, and she was certainly in no rush. She sighed and searched the room for a prospective advisor on matters of an amorous nature.
She drifted to Papa, then to Mama, who laughed merrily at little Edwin’s antics and asked Lady Wallingham, “Tell me, Dorothea. Is Bain clever enough to stand upon his head?”
“Hmmph. He is clever enough not to, Meredith,” Lady Wallingham replied. “My grandson has better uses for his head than replacing perfectly functional feet.”
Genie continued her perusal of the table. Silent and stony, Hannah lifted a spoonful of syllabub to her lips. Holstoke’s sister watched Sophie and Merry spinning in their little white gowns and ivy wreaths. A hint of a smile appeared briefly before she dropped her gaze again to the table.
Though Hannah had been papery and lusterless throughout the morning, her gown was lovely: soft, leaf-green gauze with a round, daintily ruffled neckline, white embroidery at the hem, and a white taffeta sash at the waist. Genie had long admired the other girl’s taste in gowns. Her choice of hats ran toward the plain, of course, but perhaps with Genie’s influence, she could be persuaded to add a few feathers or even some dashing little fruits.
Chewing a forkful of ham, she contemplated her reflection in a silver tureen. Her own hat was a masterpiece: ivory silk, Belgian lace, coral-red roses, green leaves and vines, and a bit of azure piping the very color of Genie’s gown. She glanced down at her bodice, admiring once again the bias-cut blue silk that molded to her shape. Yes, her wedding ensemble had been fully “Genie,” as Kate had observed. Even Mama had wept upon seeing her, clasping Genie tightly and whispering what a beautiful bride she made. Genie’s throat had tightened, and she’d squeezed her mother in return.
Mama was free now. So, for that matter, were Papa and Kate. She’d made the proper decision for her family.
None of which would help her when Holstoke decided to claim his husbandly rights.
The ham stuck in her throat. She chased it with a bit of tea.
Drat. Both Jane and Annabelle had recently birthed new offspring, so they were busy wallowing in domesticity with their husbands in Yorkshire and Nottinghamshire, respectively. The only married sister in attendance was Maureen.
And Genie would sooner ask Lady Wallingham for advice.
There was Kate, of course, but Kate was both unmarried and far too fanciful. Likely she would quote a Shakespeare sonnet about comparing Holstoke to a summer’s day, or some such nonsense.
Genie took another sip of tea as she completed her circuit of the table. She frowned. This was dreadful. Was there no one who might answer a few pressing questions?
“Butter, my lord?” a footman asked.
“Yes. Tea for my wife, as well.” The low, flinty voice came from beside her.
She blinked. Set her empty teacup down with a clatter. Turned wide eyes up to him.
And there he was—green ice and black hair and the faintest smile. He calmly buttered a roll and asked, “What has you bothered?”
The footman poured tea, and the children squealed, and her family chattered away, but all of it faded into nothingness.
“Holstoke,” she breathed.
“Eugenia.” His smile deepened. His eyes returned to hers.
She shivered, though not from cold. “I have questions.”
“For me?”
“I think … yes. You … precisely.”
He set his roll on his plate. “Ask away.”
“Not here.”
His smile quirked deeper along one side. “Where?”
After a moment, she suggested, “The library.”
He managed to ensconce them in the library—alone—approximately three minutes later. The man was efficient, she would grant him that. He closed the door and came toward her, hands clasped behind his back. “Now, then. What did you wish to ask?”
Swallowing hard and resting her backside against the writing desk, she crossed her arms. “First, you should know I do not regret anything.”
He remained silent, though he continued forward.
“Our marriage cannot be reversed. And whilst it was unfair to transfer the Great Burden of Genie into your hands, I nevertheless believe it was right.”
He was close, now. Inches away. His eyes gleamed in the shadowy room.
“Well,” she continued, wishing the pressure in her chest would ease. “Right for my family, at least.”
His eyes moved to her skirts, then to her hat, then to her lips.
“Besides which, you were unlikely to do much better, Holstoke.” She wetted her lips to stop them tingling. “Murder is no small scandal.”
“Eugenia.”
“You were the one who insisted we marry, remember. I was all set to return to—”
“Ask your questions.”
She nibbled her lip and nodded. “How—how often will you wish to …” She paused to clear her throat, as it was unaccountably dry. “That is, what sort of frequency will you require in the area of …”
He frowned. “Of?”
“Marital congress.”
He froze. Right there, before her eyes. Like a lake solidified by a cold snap.
“There is the necessary task of begetting children, of course,” she said, hoping for a thaw. “I should like to have children, I think.”
Still, he said nothing.
“But you may find my nature somewhat …” She dropped her gaze to his cravat pin. An emerald, she noted. “Lacking.” Her breath shuddered. “I should have told you before now, but this marriage—I do want it, Holstoke. I want it to work. But I may not be a very pleasing wife for a man of … strong appetites.”
Silence fell between them. She was afraid to look up. Afraid of what she might see. Instead, she watched his chest rise and fall in a steady, controlled rhythm.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet and a bit hoarse. “Is that a bird perched on your hat, E
ugenia?”
Her eyes flew up and found him frowning at her hat’s poke. “Yes. ‘Nature’s splendor’ is the motif. Notice I reduced the ostrich plumes to three, so that he appears to be poised amidst a garden in bloom—”
“Would you object if I removed it?”
“The bird?”
“Your hat.”
She blinked. “I suppose not.” Her hands lifted to grasp the brim.
His hands were there first. “Let me.” Gently, he removed her pins and lifted the hat away.
She automatically reached up to smooth her hair into place.
“I should like to see it down,” he murmured, eyes intent upon her undoubtedly flattened curls.
“Yes, well. If you find my appearance objectionable, you may blame yourself. A lady’s coiffure requires reassembly after—”
“When we are at Primvale, I will show you my greenhouse.”
Glowering up at him, she grunted her annoyance. “You are avoiding my question, Holstoke.”
“Hmm. What was it, again?”
“You know very well.”
“Remind me.”
Releasing an exasperated hiss, she snapped, “How often will you wish to bed me?”
His eyes returned to hers. They were glowing. “Often.”
Her stomach dropped into her feet, her lower belly aching. A rush of prickling heat was followed by squeezing despair. “What—what of kissing?”
“That, too.”
“Oh, God. This is a disaster.”
“How so?”
“I am dreadful at all of it, Holstoke,” she confessed in a rush. “The kissing. The touching. The … everything.” Once again, she focused upon his cravat pin. She was glad he’d taken her advice. Emeralds suited him.
Several heartbeats of silence were followed by a single, softly spoken word: “Explain.”
“I am frigid.”
“Not your conclusion, Eugenia. Your evidence.”
She shook her head then adjusted the folds of his cravat and chuckled her despair. “My sisters—the married ones, that is—all said the same thing: ‘It is wondrous, Genie! The tingles and the closeness and the pleasure,’ and on and on.” She rolled her eyes. “Hmmph. What a lot of rot.” She stroked the emerald pin with her fingertip. “Perhaps for them it is pleasurable. I doubt they lied about it. They do seem to enjoy their husbands’ attentions.” She sniffed and settled her palm on his chest, just to the right of the pin.
