Edith Layton (14 page)

She’d thought he was the sensualist with one thing on his mind. But now that she considered it, she realized she knew his manners in bed better than she knew
his life out of it. He knew her simple life entirely; he’d even investigated to find out. She hadn’t looked beyond his appearance or his kisses.

What had they really talked about? Light chatter about light things. They shared laughter and sympathy and lovemaking. She knew he liked music and rare beef, a good book as well as a good horse, spaniels and a glass of fine red wine. But she didn’t know his father’s given name, or his first wife’s name, or anything about his family, for that matter. And she knew next to nothing about his past—not to mention his plans for their future.

She sat stunned by the realization. He had seduced her, saved her, taken her from everything she knew. But they were, in effect, intimate strangers, because there was far too much she didn’t know about this man—her husband, her lover.

“I didn’t know!” she said again, shaking her head.

“You didn’t ask,” he said gently.

She bit her lip. That made it worse, because it was true. There was probably much more she didn’t even know enough about to think of asking more about.
Didn’t think about your life with him much beyond his bedroom door, did you
? she asked herself with sudden guilt and regret.

She sat up straight again and looked at him. He gazed back at her with amusement sparkling in his knowing eyes. She took a deep breath. Clearly there was more she had to find out, even if she was beginning to be a little nervous about the answers, because she realized that whatever those answers were, in so many ways it was already too late to do anything.

“Y
ou lied,” Bridget said flatly.

Ewen raised an eyebrow.

“It’s hidden away, but it’s not little,” she insisted nervously as she stared at the house the coach had arrived at. She stood on the circular pebbled drive, frowning at his “little hideaway.” When they’d turned off the road she’d thought they were driving into a forest, because the trees were so tall and old. She’d expected to see a charming cottage.

But the road became a private drive that led to a long meadow with grazing cattle. Then she saw the house—a huge brick and timbered structure with a wide entrance. It was at least two stories tall, and sprawling. It was not only bigger than ten cottages cobbled together, but even grander than his townhouse in London.

“It’s only a hideaway now,” Ewen said. “It used to be an inn, a coaching stop, actually, in the fourteenth century. But the main road went elsewhere as the centuries went on. An ancestor snapped it up and closed in the courtyard, making it part of the house. He used it as a hunting lodge in the days when there was something larger than rabbits to hunt this close to London. It’s not very big once you get inside.”

“Only fifteen bedrooms,” she muttered.

“Twelve,” he said. “Shall we go in?”

“Ewen,” she said a little desperately, “if you consider this small, your father’s home must be a castle!”

“It is,” he said gently. “What of it?”

“How shall I fit in there?” she mourned.

“Much more easily. I assure you,” he said. “It has twenty bedrooms, you see.”

“That’s not funny,” she said.

“It would be if you weren’t being so foolish,” he said, taking her arm and leading her to his house. “You’re usually quick to get the joke. But you must be weary, we’ve been traveling all day. A good night’s rest will do you good.” He bent to whisper in her ear. “Too bad I’m not going to let you have one.”

A dozen retorts sprang to her lips, only to die there as a footman flung the front door wide open. It was easy to see that the front of the house had once been a courtyard, and a huge one. They’d closed it in on all sides and made a domed ceiling of glass to cover it. It was bright as day inside. Potted palms flourished in planters by each of the two curved staircases, one at either side of the vast space. The stairs met at the top in a long balcony that overlooked the room. In back, to the
right, she could see another room with an immense fireplace. To the left a corridor led to other parts of the house.

Ewen waited for Bridget to step inside, but she was so awed, she hesitated. He laughed, lifted her in his arms, and carried her in. After the first startled moment, she flung her arms round his neck and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “Ewen! How lovely, you remembered.”

“Remembered?” he asked, stopping still and looking at her.

“To carry the bride over the threshold. I confess, I’d forgotten it myself. But I’m so glad you didn’t. It’s good luck, they say.”

She’d seldom seen him embarrassed, but the skin over his high cheekbones grew ruddy in the bright light. She saw regret and something else, something sad and lost, shining in his eyes. But in a moment he was his usual self again.

“Truth to tell, I forgot, too,” he said as he set her feet on the floor, keeping his hands locked at the small of her back so he could pull her close against himself. “It was a happy mischance. I’m glad it pleased you.” As she gazed at him in confusion he said, “Easy as it would be, and pleasant as it might make it for me if you thought I remembered, I don’t like to lie. Not if I don’t have to.”

“Because you had to so much in the past?” she asked, determined to learn about his emotions as well as his history.

“Because I don’t like to,” he said bluntly, closing the subject by dipping his head to kiss her.

He introduced her to the butler, the housekeeper, and the cook as the other servants, the footmen and maids,
stood at attention. Like many rich noblemen, he saw them infrequently but paid their salaries regularly so he’d have staff in attendance whenever the whim moved him to visit this house. He paid them little attention now, too. He didn’t take his eyes from Bridget. He even insisted on showing her to her bedchamber himself.

It was magnificent, just as bright and beautiful and exquisitely furnished as the other parts of his amazing “hideaway” that she’d managed to see on their hurried way up the stairs. But this room was furnished with modern furniture in the Egyptian style, made popular by Wellington’s successes there. There were delicate gilt chairs, lounges with crocodile legs, and graceful inlaid wood tables and bureaus. The bed and wardrobe were from an earlier generation, made of dark, gleaming woods and enormous, but the room was big enough to contain them all with enough room between to make it seem uncluttered.

“Why bother with the outside? A body could hunt rabbits in
here
,” Bridget muttered to herself as she moved from the fireplace to the windows overlooking the meadow.

“But a body could find a better body to capture than a rabbit’s in here,” Ewen said so close to her ear that she jumped.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” she said, flustered and pleased.

“Where else should I be? This is my bedchamber—and yours, if you so desire. Of course, some fashionable ladies prefer their own chambers, so if you wish—”

“No!” she said quickly. “I’d like to stay with you.”

“Done, then,” he said, looking pleased. “Now, as for tonight, you’ll want a bath. So do I, and not only
because of the dust of the road. I’ve a treat in store. You’ve no idea of the bathing facilities we have here. They’re nothing short of Roman—because they
are
Roman. They’re all mosaic tile from an ancient site my ancestor excavated on these very grounds. There was a warm springs here, and it still flows. Nothing like Bath, of course—not so hot, or foul-smelling either, fortunately. The tub is more like a pool, with room for six at least, though I’ll be happy to make do with two.”

She saw he was serious. Her heartbeat accelerated.
Bathe
with him? What she did with him in the night, in their bed, in the darkness, was one thing. But bathing together? There would have to be light, there would have to be intent, their eyes would be open, and there would be so much to see, even inwardly. She couldn’t absolve herself by pretending to be merely dutiful.

She ducked her head and looked away. “I don’t think so, Ewen,” she said in a stifled voice. “There’s much I can do, much I
have
done that I never thought I’d do, but some things seem…too much for me to do right now.”

“Oh, well, it was a lovely idea,” he said, and shrugged. “But if wishes were horses, this old Dobbin would ride.” He grinned at how her eyes widened at that reference. “Not to worry, I’ll be a gentleman and let you use it first. I’ll make do with a basin or the icy little brook behind the house. Your face! No, I’m joking. Don’t fret, enjoy your Roman orgy all by yourself, selfish creature. The thought of what you’re missing will comfort me. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Bridget wasn’t sure just exactly what six people would do at an orgy, though her imagination was delighted to deal with the problem. But when she got to the room with the bathing pool, she realized that what
ever it was, there was certainly room to do it there.
They could play cricket here
, she thought as she tiptoed into the big tiled room.

It was like a Roman temple. There was a long, shallow rectangular pool in the center, and she could see the designs of the tiles on the bottom. Satyrs and maidens, fowl and flowers
—it’s an underwater art gallery
! she thought in wonder. She left her dressing gown on a stone bench and, feeling odd about being naked in such a vast place, quickly and gingerly stepped down the wide marble steps into the water. It was delightfully warm, and only came to her thighs, she realized with relief. Letting go of the railing, she sank into bliss.

She passed the first minutes relaxing, trying to make her body forget the miles of road it had been jolted over. Even the most comfortable coach felt like a farmer’s rig after a day’s traveling. Then she was able to take closer note of her surroundings. She looked up—and shrieked. She wrapped her arms around herself and doubled over.

She dared another glance up, and felt like a fool. It wasn’t open to the sky at all. It was only another glass dome. It took a few minutes to convince herself that the only way someone could look in would be if they were strolling on the roof, and she didn’t think that was customary.
And what birds can see, they can’t talk about
, she told herself, sitting up and relaxing again.

Then she looked down and saw the designs on the floor of the pool from that close. Still, soon she was edging around the pool, walking on her knees, peering down into the water. T
he vicar was right: How quickly one gets used to evil
, she thought piously, and then got back to studying the figures again. It was all very classical, she
thought when she’d made her way across and back again. All from Roman myths. It wasn’t as if one could see
exactly
what they were doing, although she definitely tried. But there was little doubt.

Still, a child might think the bull was merely frolicking with the pretty maiden, and that the satyrs were simply carrying the maidens off to a picnic. C
ut line
, B
ridget
, she told herself.
The mosaics may not get
E
wen arrested, but they’re not illustrations from children’s tales
.

Thinking of children made her wonder if she and Ewen would have any. Suddenly she blinked, wondering if they’d already started one. As she lazed in the warm water she remembered how they’d gone about that. That memory, along with the mosaics swimming in her mind, made her almost wish she hadn’t insisted Ewen resort to that cold brook. Soon she was actually trying to envision orgies, although she could only think of one person she’d ever let join her.

Ewen stood outside the door to the bathing room. He paused, a little rueful, a little embarrassed. Must all their encounters begin with a bath? Cleanliness was next to godliness, but he didn’t feel at all spiritual. Last night he’d surprised her in the bath and pressed the matter to spare her the anxiety of waiting for their lovemaking.

G
ive over
, S
aint
E
wen
, he thought wryly. He’d done it because he couldn’t wait a moment longer. He’d been on fire. But tonight he wanted to slowly bring her to a simmering flame. Whether it began with a bath or not didn’t matter. He’d see that it ended in a blaze that would consume them both. He grinned at the thought.

He wore only a dressing gown and that grin, and he carried a silver tray. It was heaped with plates of finger
foods, fruits, and sugared treats, delicacies a man and a woman could feed each other, the sort of treats that were easy and pleasant to nibble at leisure while lolling in a pool. He knew. He’d done it often enough.

T
he last time, with that big-breasted blonde…or was it the dark-haired one who refused to get her hair wet
? That
was definitely not a good night
, he thought, raising a hand to ease open the door. He stopped, his hand on the door, before he did.

It was B
ridget
inside. Naive, wise, newly experienced Bridget. Not the buxom blond baggage or the dark-haired one, or any of the others he’d known. She was different in so many ways; that was what he valued about her. If he repeated the pranks he’d pulled in lustful fun, wasn’t he somehow making her like the rest? She wasn’t. Nor did he feel the same about her, or want to.

He let his hand drop. She deserved better from him. He didn’t want to meld her in his mind with all the others he’d coupled so briefly with.

Ewen turned and went to his room. He put the tray down and called his valet so he could dress for dinner.

“It ought to be called a dining hall,” Bridget said nervously when she entered the cavernous dining room.

There were no servants to be seen. Ewen held out a chair for her, waiting until she sat before he seated himself. He looked elegant. He was dressed almost as formally as he’d been in London, in a dark jacket with his neckcloth crisp and white. The only concession to the countryside was the high boots he wore.

She was glad she’d dressed in style, too. She’d worn one of her new gowns, silken, puff-sleeved, and pale lime green, simple and expensive as a new banknote. It made her feel elegant, but seeing his utter composure,
she became ill at ease. She didn’t know how to deal with this formality of his, at least not now that they’d known intimacy. He seemed to be two men. She supposed all gentlemen were like that, and wondered if she’d ever be lady enough to accept that her husband would be intimate in bed but coolly formal outside of it.

At least she sat beside him, she thought with relief. If he were at the head of the table and she at the foot, they’d have to shout about the food or the weather or other dinnertime chat. The room was huge but somehow cozy. There was room for the table and sideboard as well as comfortable-looking chairs and settees. The walls were polished oak, and the windows looked over lawns where late afternoon shadows dappled the scythed grass. It was a cool night, and so a merry fire chuckled in the enormous hearth.

“It must have been a lovely inn,” Bridget said.

“You’ll find it a comfortable house. So tell me, did you enjoy your bath?”

“I did,” she said, and looked down at her glass. She glanced up to be sure there were no servants near. “I did,” she repeated, her eyes merry and bright, “but…”

“But?”

“But…it was lonely,” she said.

He thought he’d misheard, until he saw the grin tugging at her lips. He put down his glass and threw back his head, his laughter ringing out, to be met by hers.

It was a good thing that Brook House had no history of ghosts, because when the footmen came in to serve the first courses there was no one left in the room, and nothing to be seen or heard but echoing laughter floating down from the top of the stairs.