Swiftly, he took two steps back, then made a gesture to the house. “Shall we return?”
She nodded and they fell into step, walking without speaking as the echoes of the past rang between them. Toying with the flower, Genevieve searched for something to say to him, but she was running out of time.
All too soon, they reached the house and she still hadn’t found a way to reach him. She paused at back door, desperate to stall for more time with him, and babbled the first thought that popped into her head. “Might I look for a book in the library?”
Again he hesitated as if unable to bear spending more time in her presence. But ever the gentleman, he nodded once. “Of course.”
He led her to a dark paneled room decorated in rich green floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with ancient books. The room had a comfortable, masculine feel. Over a settee hung a large landscape in oil.
She instantly recognized his style. “That’s one of yours.”
“Er, yes.”
Genevieve sat sideways on the settee below it and gazed up at the painting. It clearly represented one of the Amesbury gardens but it possessed a whimsical quality, the frame transformed into a window overlooking a world of fairies and sprites. The colors were more vibrant than true flowers, and the light slanting down through the trees glowed with magical brilliance. Utter peace and tranquility abounded in that beautiful world of his creation.
“It’s astonishing,” she breathed. “It almost looks real … only nothing is quite that beautiful. I wish it were an actual place so I could go there.”
The clock ticked while Genevieve sat entranced. Finally, she drew herself away and blinked at Christian. He belonged in that world. Golden, masculine, gentle. Too kind to be real. No longer in love with her. Perhaps betrothed by now. To someone else. Of course, that was none of her concern. She’d relinquished any claim she might have had over him when she married Wickburgh.
She smiled up at him. “Your style reminds me of Thomas Gainsborough.”
One side of this mouth lifted. “You’re familiar with Gainsborough’s work?”
“Don’t look so surprised. I told you I have an interest in the arts.”
“So you did.”
She turned back to the painting. “Your style clearly reveals a preference for a Romanticism style of art but your compositions are unique.”
A male voice boomed in the passageway. “Christian!”
“In here, Cole,” Christian called.
As a dark-haired man with sapphire blue eyes entered, he stopped up short. His penetrating stare bore into Genevieve. She shrank back under the raw power of this man.
Christian made a gesture between then. “My brother, Lord Tarrington—Cole to his family and closest friends. This is Genevieve ...” he clamped his mouth shut as if realizing belatedly that he was supposed to keep her name a secret.
Lord Tarrington bore the same urbane elegance so many of his class possessed. He was powerful. Dangerous. As a peer, Tarrington would feel duty bound to return her to her husband regardless of her wishes. She must leave.
He
’d find her. Tonight, she would go.
Drawing her courage about her, she dropped an elegant curtsy. “My lord.”
Lord Tarrington’s gaze remained unnervingly direct. “I’m happy to see you’re feeling better. I hope you’ll join us for dinner this evening.”
She heard the command couched in his invitation. Though defiance arose in her heart, she remained outwardly deferential. “Of course, my lord. I am grateful for your hospitality.”
She turned to Christian, hoping she appeared calm. “Thank you for the tour, and for showing me your art.” She glanced at Lord Tarrington. “My lord.” She sank into a courtly curtsy. Carefully controlling both her breathing and the gait of her step, she stepped around him to the door and walked to her room.
Ann waited for her there, a gown laid out on the bed and a fire crackling in the fireplace. “Have a nice walk, miss?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“What’s that?” Ann gestured to her hand.
Genevieve glanced down at the forgotten lily. “This is for you. To thank you for your excellent care.” Although a small, neglected place in her heart cried out at giving up the flower Christian had given her, she didn’t dare keep anything as a reminder of what he once meant to her. And she had nothing else to offer Ann for her kindness.
Ann’s face lit up. “Oi, how lovely. Thankee kindly, miss.” She drew a deep breath and then tucked it behind her ear. “Shall we dress ye fer dinner?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Dinner. With the earl. Genevieve quailed at the thought of facing the earl again. He’d brought a new threat, a new danger. He was arrogant and powerful, too much like her husband. The idea of remaining in this house with such a man left her alternating between crippling fear and a savage determination to protect herself.
She’d endure dinner. Then, as soon as the house fell quiet, she’d flee before the earl turned her over to Wickburgh.
Ann lit the lamps and helped her wash and dress. This time, Genevieve didn’t stop Ann as she coiled her hair into an elegant upsweep, leaving soft tendrils to brush against the sides of her face. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone. And she’d be gone before the night was over.
She squelched the image of Christian’s face arising in her mind. It could never be. She hadn’t quite received the forgiveness she’d hoped to find from him, but at least he seemed to have softened toward her. Perhaps she’d mended some of the hurt between them.
As the maid arranged the folds of the creamy gown, Genevieve produced a smile despite her heavy heart and gestured to the gown. “It’s a perfect fit, just as if it came from the modiste. Thank you, Ann, it was most expertly altered.”
Ann bobbed a curtsy. “’Twas my pleasure, milady.” She stepped back. “Oi, miss, yer beautiful, ain’t ye?” She cleared her throat. “Er, that is,
aren’t
you? My lady tells me I must speak proper if I am to become a lady’s maid.”
Genevieve touched the girl’s hand. “You’re doing a fine job.”
As she left the room, she raised her head, vowing never again to be a victim. She would prove to the world, and herself, that she was strong. Until then, she’d pretend to be strong.
Genevieve headed for the drawing room where the family gathered before dinner. Voices from the front parlor drew her attention. One voice was frighteningly familiar. Frissons of fear flitted down her back.
“My wife is insane and she needs help. She may still be out there, confused and alone.”
Her heart leaped into her throat and strangled her. Blind with panic, she froze. “No. Oh, no. No, no, no.”
“My lady?” A footman hovered in the corridor, his livery impeccable, but he wore a mildly distressed expression despite his training.
She couldn’t speak or move or breathe. He was here to take her back. Back to misery.
Strong? No. She wasn’t strong. But she would not become a victim ever again.
CHAPTER 9
Standing in the study, Christian fisted his hands and tried not to glare at Lord Wickburgh as he spoke of the woman Christian had once thought he loved.
Wickburgh toyed with his walking stick. “She was out of her mind with grief over the loss of our unborn child. I fear the strain has driven her mad.”
Wickburgh had changed little in the year since he and Christian had fought. Like most peers, he bore an air of arrogance, yet there was a hard set to his mouth and he stared at them through flat, soulless eyes that conjured images of a vampire.
Christian suppressed a shiver. How had Genevieve been so foolish as to marry him?
“I regret I never had the pleasure of meeting your wife,” Cole said smoothly. “And I wasn’t aware you’d returned to the area or I would have paid a call upon you.”
“We’ve only been here a short time and her health has been poor.”
“Describe your wife to me, please?”
“Short, thin, very pale skin. And lots of red hair.”
A horribly unromantic description by a supposedly loving husband.
Cole looked utterly bored. Which meant he was working hard to mask his thoughts. “If she’s been missing for two days, it may be too late for her.”
Wickburgh opened his mouth in feigned horror, yet his posture remained poised. “Don’t say that, I beg you. I’m not giving up hope.” He thumped his walking stick on the floor as if to convey urgency.
Christian swallowed a noise of disgust at the false emotion in Wickburgh’s tone and reminded himself he shouldn’t use the blackguard for boxing practice. At the moment, he couldn’t think of a good reason why not.
Wickburgh continued, “All I ask is that you instruct your tenants to watch for her. I’m offering a reward for her safe return.”
Christian could no longer tolerate the theatrics. “Surely if she were still alive, she would have returned to you by now. That is, if she wanted to return.”
Wickburgh turned a cold eye on Christian and looked him over as if he were an impudent boy speaking out of turn in the presence of his betters. Christian resisted the urge to touch the scar on his face put there by Lord Wickburgh’s thugs. Refusing to be baited, Christian folded his arms without comment and stared him down. He wanted nothing more than a repeat of the night they’d fought over Genevieve. Only this time, he’d be the one slipping a knife in between his enemy’s ribs and leaving Wickburgh for dead.
“Of course she would want to return,” Wickburgh said. “But she may not be capable of finding her way home in her mental state. Someone may have found her and taken her in until they can learn to whom she belongs.”
“Belongs? Like a piece of jewelry?” Christian challenged.
The hard, flat eyes bored into him. “I am her husband. She belongs to me.”
Christian clenched his teeth before he retorted something that would reveal too much. Even before their altercation in Bath, Christian had disliked Wickburgh. There was just something supremely unsettling about the man. Regardless of what Genevieve had done, seeing her unhappy enough to go to such lengths didn’t feel like justice; instead, it battered the ragged edges of his heart. Genevieve seemed vulnerable and fragile. And Wickburgh was clearly to blame.
Everything about her jilting him had seemed wrong. It was as if he’d stepped into someone else’s story where the plot didn’t match up with his own.
Cole stared at Christian as if he’d just grown a second head, then he visibly caught himself and resumed his mask of urbane boredom. “I’d be happy to alert my tenants to watch for your wife, Lord Wickburgh, and to pass on your description of her.”
Calling upon all his powers of control, Christian steadied his voice. “You should prepare yourself for the likelihood that she’s gone forever.”
Wickburgh glowered, visibly biting back whatever retort he wished to fling at Christian but daren’t speak it in front of an earl. Christian almost wished Cole away so he could have it out with Wickburgh, once and for all.
Cole stood, clearly dismissing their guest. “Keep us informed of the progress of your search.”
No doubt aware that his host outranked him, Wickburgh followed suit, swinging his walking stick. “I’m most grateful to you, Lord Tarrington. Please send word if you hear anything.”
“Of course.”
Wickburgh bowed to Cole, pointedly ignored Christian, and left carrying the walking stick like a scepter.
Christian let out his breath in a long exhale. “Scoundrel. I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
Cole cocked a brow. “That would have been stupid.”
“He’s straight out of a nightmare.”
“How long have you known that our river jumper is Lady Wickburgh?”
Christian hesitated. But Cole already knew Genevieve’s identity. All that remained was convincing Cole to keep her whereabouts from Wickburgh. “Since the moment I saw her face.”
“What else haven’t you told me?”
Christian dropped into a leather armchair. “She’s the girl I almost married last year in Bath.”
A light came into Cole’s eyes. “The jilt.”
Christian made a sound of disgust. “The jilt.”
“Then Lord Wickburgh is the one you fought.”
“How did you know I’d fought anyone?”
“I make it a point to keep track of my brothers.”
Christian let out a snort.
Cole touched Christian’s temple, tracing the scar there. “And I understand you have a worse scar in your ribs. Is Wickburgh responsible for those?”
“Not directly. He sent a group of ruffians after me.”
Cole’s eyes narrowed. “Can you prove that?”
“Just something one of them said. No, I can’t prove it.”
“So she threw herself into a river. Not happily wedded, I gather?”
Christian shrugged and looked away, lest Cole see too much, and fisted his hands.
Cole sat in a chair opposite him. “You must feel some satisfaction that the man for whom she threw you over is making her miserable.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“Uh-huh.”
Christian leaped to his feet and made a point of pouring a sherry. His hands shook with unreleased anger.
“He wants her back, Chris.”
Christian sipped the sherry. “She begged me not to notify anyone she is here. She wouldn’t even tell Alicia her name. She plans to leave and let him believe she drowned.”
“That seems drastic.”
“She must have her reasons.” Christian slammed down the glass on the sideboard table.
Cole’s probing stare penetrated him. “So you’re still in love with her?”
“No! I care nothing for that little jilt.” He’d learned his lesson. A mistake he would not make a second time.
Humor laced Cole’s voice. “Are you sure? ‘Methinks thou doth protest too much—’”
“I like the idea of inconveniencing Wickburgh. I’d like to inconvenience him with the end of my sword.”
“I see.” Cole raised a brow. “Then by all means, help her. But don’t kill her husband.”
“I can’t tell you how tempted I am to do that.”
“That much is clear.”
“I’d win, you know.”
Cole laughed softly. “There are times when you sound too much like me.”
Trying to shake off the anger still coursing through his veins, Christian shivered exaggeratedly. “Horrors.”