Authors: Tracy Anne Warren
The lighted Christmas candle held a position of prominence on the mantel in the first-floor drawing room, where the women and children spent their time fashioning paper ornaments and bows and streamers made from lengths of pretty gold and red ribbon. In the meantime, the men took to the fields to shoot game or ride over the frost-covered hills, returning flushed and famished in the evening. Tonight—Christmas Eve—everyone would exchange presents, sing wassailing tunes and drink syllabub and hot rum punch.
Usually Adrian loved this time of year. Visiting with his family and friends. Making rounds by horseback and carriage to call upon his neighbors and tenants, leaving gifts of food and drink to brighten their holiday table.
But this year he would be glad when everyone departed and the house grew quiet once again. Though Jeannette had agreed to pretend for company that all was well between them, the act was a great strain. Just the other day, he’d been forced to lie point-blank to his mother as everyone gathered to admire Sylvia’s new baby, Emma.
A tiny bundle of rosy-cheeked joy, the infant gurgled and blinked at the sea of strange faces, waving a tiny fist in the air before falling into a deep slumber. Adrian’s other sisters, Anna, Lysande and Zoe, all took a few minutes to hold the baby.
Then it was his wife’s turn.
He couldn’t help but watch as she bent over the child. Cradling the infant against her breasts, she cooed silly, soothing nonsense phrases. With the tip of a single finger, she stroked the baby’s delicate cheek, an expression of pure pleasure lighting her face.
“When are the two of you going to give me one of those?” His mother came up beside him and laid a hand on his sleeve. “A woman cannot become a
grand-mère
too many times, you know.”
A fist clenched inside his gut, a dreadful melancholy filling his heart. He forced a hearty smile and prayed his mother would not see through him to the truth. “We’re working on it,
Maman.
We’re working on it.”
But they weren’t working on it.
He no longer touched his wife and didn’t know if he ever would again. He supposed eventually he would have to return to her bed to produce an heir. Assuming she didn’t turn up pregnant before then. The thought, and others like it, left him in a constant state of agitation. A slow simmer of rage that boiled just below the surface, denying him any measure of peace or happiness.
And Kit. He couldn’t look at his brother without wondering, questioning. He wanted to believe Kit’s denials. Nearly did, especially when he watched him and Jeannette interact among the family. They did seem like brother and sister, not lovers. Yet every once in a while, he would catch a look, almost conspiratorial in nature. And a fresh wave of fury would roar through him over the secrets they refused to reveal.
Just this afternoon, while the children played Hood-man Blind in the long gallery, he’d seen the pair of them standing with their heads together, whispering. Incensed, he’d watched his wife pass a note to Kit. Casually, Kit had tucked the slip of parchment into his pocket, then proceeded to act the fool, snatching the hood off his cousin Cicely’s head in a way that set the whole crowd to laughing.
Another love letter? Grim with anger, he vowed to find out.
Keeping Kit in his sights, he bided his time until the adults assembled in the drawing room for tea. When Kit rose to make a return trip to the sideboard for seconds, he followed.
Slipping up next to him, he bumped into Kit just as his brother reached for a scone. Employing a sleight-of-hand trick he’d acquired during his espionage days, he purloined the note from Kit’s pocket, using the “accident” as cover.
“Sorry, caught my footing wrong,” he murmured in apology.
Kit turned, shot him a look, eyes narrowed as if he didn’t entirely believe him. After a moment, he shrugged, filled his plate and returned to his seat.
Nearly two hours passed before Adrian found an opportunity to read the note. Alone at his desk in his office, he listened to the soft, rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock. He stared at the paper in his hand. He didn’t want to read it. He didn’t want to know what it said.
Finally, knowing he must, he forced his fingers to move.
Bewilderment surged through him as the words came clear on the page.
Latin?
The damned thing was written in Latin. Why would Jeannette give Kit a message written in a foreign language—and a dead one, to boot? It made absolutely no sense whatsoever.
He scanned the text, reading it with ease. Ancient languages had been one of his best subjects at University. Definitely not a love note, he decided. Rather, a translation—and a boring one, at that—about one of the lesser battles waged by the Roman Empire.
One of Kit’s lessons? From every indication, yes. But what had it been doing in Jeannette’s possession? And why had she passed it to his brother in such a secretive, clandestine fashion?
He puzzled over the curious question for what remained of the afternoon, and again when he went upstairs to dress for dinner. Still preoccupied, he tuned in with only half an ear to the conversation during the delicious Christmas Eve feast.
Time and time again, his eyes turned toward his wife where she held court at the opposite end of the lengthy table. He kept coming back to one question: If she hadn’t betrayed him, if the love letter wasn’t from Kit, then why all the lies and half-truths? What was she concealing?
He was no closer to a solution when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner. Over cups of wassail, Zoe was importuned to lend her skills upon the pianoforte. Everyone joined in a rousing chorus of holiday songs.
Somehow as the evening progressed, he ended up near the doorway, Jeannette at his side.
“Oh ho, look, everyone,” his cousin Reginald declared, pointing a finger over their heads. “Mistletoe. Go on, Raeburn, you’ve been fairly caught. Kiss your wife.”
He saw the bemused expression in Jeannette’s eyes as she glanced upward and realized the significance of the green and white plant dangling overhead. A wistful sorrow stole into her eyes as she gazed at him, his reluctance and her own understood without a word between them.
He tried to laugh off the suggestion, but with the entire family urging them on, he and Jeannette had little choice but to comply with tradition. Touching her for the first time in weeks, he bent down, dusted his lips lightly over hers.
“Is that the best you can do?” Reginald chastened. “I could kiss my own mother better than that.”
“Watch your mouth, boy, or you’ll find a piece of soap in it,” his mother returned, sending everyone into a fit of giggles.
They all waited. Waited for him to kiss his new wife the way a loving, happy husband would.
Her eyes fastened upon his cravat, faint color staining her pale cheeks. He slipped an arm around her waist, fastened his mouth to hers and gave her a real kiss.
He meant to make it fast. A quick, healthy blending of lips that was all flash and no fire, designed solely to satisfy their audience. But as soon as his mouth linked with hers, sensory memory took hold, repressed needs, bittersweet longings rising to the surface. And he was lost.
Violet shivered, wanting him so, the near-forgotten beauty of his touch enough to make everything around her fade into oblivion. A rushing like the wind roared in her head, feverish heat scalding her flesh as her body turned compliant. So long, she thought, an eternity since she’d known this. She wanted, needed it never to end. She reached up a hand, stroked her palm over his lean jaw, his dear, beloved face.
Suddenly, he pulled away and she was free. She stood confused, bemused for a long, odd moment as voices buzzed like bees in her ears. For an instant, he’d made her forget who she was, forget their troubles, forget why they no longer lived as husband and wife.
A wave of intense heat swept through her, Violet finding herself embarrassed to be the cynosure of all. Then an arctic blast chilled her as she caught the grim set of Adrian’s eyes.
An act, that’s all it had been. Nothing had changed between them, nothing at all.
Giving a giddy laugh as though this were the happiest Christmas of her life, she pasted a beaming smile on her face, then crossed to the pianoforte to encourage another song.
Inside her heart wept.
Brilliant rays of sunshine cheered an otherwise damp, blustery January day. Violet lifted her face to the light, drinking in the radiance that gleamed brightly yet lacked any kind of essential warmth.
Rather like her life these days.
She shivered beneath her thick woolen cloak as she walked in the Winterlea gardens. Cold not in a physical sense but in an emotional one instead.
Lonely.
She was unutterably lonely; the house finally still after weeks of relentless, frenzied activity. The family had departed days ago, returning to their separate homes, their separate lives. Even the dowager duchess had left for the dower house, with promises to visit again when the weather turned more clement in the spring.
Kit was next to go. His University examinations awaited him, then the start of the new term. Assuming, of course, he passed the required tests. She had wished him luck, offering one or two final suggestions for what he ought to study. She watched, a lump in her throat, as her friend and only true ally rode away.
Adrian departed last. Urgent business in London, he claimed. But she knew the real reason. He wanted to get away from her, from their unhappiness. He’d made no pretense of inviting her along. And he’d strictly forbidden her from traveling anywhere on her own.
If she really were Jeannette, his edict would have sent her flying out of the house, if for no other reason than to prove she could. But no matter how she might pretend, she was not her sister. Anyway, where would she go? Lonely as it might seem, the estate was her home now.
She ought to be relieved Adrian was gone. Being alone with him was a misery, even in a house as massive as Winterlea. Yet his absence left a frightful void. They might not be on speaking terms these days, but still there was an odd sort of comfort in knowing he was near. A chance to catch a glimpse of him in one of the hallways, to hear his voice as he spoke to his secretary or one of the staff. And the nightly agony of sitting in silence as they dined, pretending to ignore each other down the length of the dinner table.
Now even that small contact was gone.
A year ago she would have reveled in her solitude. Plenty of opportunity to sleep and daydream. A world’s worth of time to study and read without a single interruption or reproving word. Yet now that she could do all those things, they fell flat.
She’d written to her friend Eliza, giving some offhand excuse to explain away the lack of a foreign postmark. Jeannette was forwarding the missives for her, she’d said, so they wouldn’t go astray. If Eliza found the delivery system strange, she didn’t remark upon it, pleased to have reestablished their friendship, even if it was only through correspondence. What Violet would do when her twin finally returned to England, she hadn’t yet puzzled out.
Otherwise, there was little to keep her busy around the house. The new housekeeper, Mrs. Litton, was a true marvel of efficiency. Warm and personable, but not above setting down a firm hand when needed, the tiny, no-nonsense whirlwind of a woman was an utter gem.
Dissatisfied with the “goings-on,” as Mrs. Litton called them, at the new Marquis of Hartcourt’s establishment—he being a distant relation who had inherited after her longtime employer passed away—she had been eager to find a new position. Unlike with Mrs. Hardwick, Violet had felt immediately at ease with the motherly woman. Without interviewing even one other applicant, she’d hired her on the spot.
If not for the older woman’s expertise, Christmas would no doubt have degenerated into a disaster. Instead, it had been effortless. The housekeeper had aided her in anticipating everyone’s needs, often before they were expressed.
In the garden, Violet paused to admire a bed of Lenten roses. The hearty winter-blooming plant added a refreshing dash of color to the otherwise dormant landscape. She leaned down, plucked a single blossom of dusky cream.
So pale and fragile,
she mused as she let it rest in her gloved palm. By day’s end, the petals would be wilted, their beauty nothing but a memory.
Is that all she was to have now? Memories? Was she to have nothing more than a brief taste of happiness as transitory as this flower?
Would Adrian ever forgive her without knowing the full truth?
Would he forgive her if he did?
She stared at the flower for another long minute, then crushed it inside her fist. When she opened her palm, a gust of wind carried away the remains, leaving her hand as empty as her heart.
“Another brandy, your Grace?”
Adrian glanced up from his silent ruminations. The White’s Club servant stood at a respectful distance, awaiting his answer.
“Hmm, yes, Hoskins, I believe I will.”
The man bowed, picked up Adrian’s empty snifter and withdrew.
He ought to have refused the draught, Adrian chided himself. He was drinking far too much these days. He knew it, but couldn’t seem to stop himself, drowning his sorrows a far easier solution than confronting them. What he should do was get up out of his chair right now, go home and get a good night’s sleep. Trouble was, sleep had lately become his enemy. When he did try, he usually ended up staring restlessly into the dark. Or else he fell into a shallow doze, plagued by disturbing dreams of her, of Jeannette.
He needed to shake himself out of his brooding gloom and get on with his life as best he could. What was he doing here anyway, rattling around London in the dead of winter? He hated the city this time of year, cold and slick, void of any decent company. Although lately he wasn’t fit for company, decent or otherwise.
Her betrayal had seen to that.
The staff at home was concerned, he knew. They’d taken to treading softly in his presence, tossing him worried looks they didn’t think he saw. It was one of the reasons he’d come out to his club. No one to gawk at him here. No one to whisper and wonder about the problems between him and his duchess.