A Highland Duchess Page 19

  He smiled. “You’ve had a bad two days.”

  “How did you know I’ve been married two days?” she asked.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he sat next to her and poured a cup of tea for himself.

  “Has Bryce treated you well?” he asked.

  “Is that a question you should ask?”

  His smile faded. “Perhaps not,” he said.

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments but she had the impression that he was weighing something in his mind.

  “What is it, Ian?”

  He looked surprised at her question. “We know each other too well, I think, Emma.”

  She shook her head. He could not say things like that to her. Not now.

  Just when she was about to tell him that it would, perhaps, be better if he left her, he spoke again. “Bryce was one of your husband’s hangers-on. He liked being in the duke’s circle of acquaintances. Did he tell you?”

  She had the strangest feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she were in a carriage going too fast, or in a train taking a curve.

  “No,” she said. “He didn’t. Did he ever go to Chavensworth?”

  Her voice was barely a whisper, not much more than a thought, but he heard her. Did he hear the fear in the question as well?

  He must have, because the look he gave her was one filled with a soft and gentle emotion. Pity? Compassion?

  Shame seemed to cradle his answer in a soft down, so that she felt the words rather than simply hearing them.

  “On numerous occasions,” he said.

  She looked away. She had an answer, then, to Bryce’s treatment of her. Her new husband had seen her as the Ice Queen of their revelries.

  “Were you a visitor to Chavensworth?” She’d asked him the question before and his answer had been no. Would he be more honest now?”

  “I loathed the Duke of Herridge,” he said. “Even if I had been invited, I would not have attended. I’d heard enough about his parties to be disgusted from afar.”

  She heard the edge in his voice, the sharply defined anger, and felt the blood drain from her face.

  Had Bryce told him? Had he a gift for description? Had he conveyed all of the horror and depravity of those nights?

  She didn’t particularly like being an object of pity. Nor did she want to be a target for scorn. But those were the only two choices left her, having been the Duchess of Herridge as well as the Ice Queen.

  Emma didn’t know what to say. Words were like tiny moths in the face of a gale. However frantic their flutters, they were incapable of changing anything.

  She closed her eyes, wishing herself away from this room, from him. Wanting to be a child again, capable of changing the course of her life. The implausibility of that wish, the sheer impossibility of it, forced her to look at him.

  She would not be a coward here and now.

  “You know what happened, then,” she said, her voice carrying the faintest whisper of fear. “You know what I did.”

  She didn’t think he was going to answer her. He refilled his cup, moved the table, and stretched out his legs. Finally, he sat back and looked at her, his eyes flat, his face somber.

  “How could I not? I traveled to London often enough to hear the rumors. A beautiful duchess with skin like alabaster, naked and aloof. Available to see, to dream of, but never to touch.”

  “No wonder you were so filled with contempt for me that first night.” How very calm she sounded. There was no shame in her voice, or humiliation, while her skin felt shriveled with it. Her lungs were too constricted, and tears were too close.

  “I had nothing but rumors by which to judge you, Emma. It was only later when I realized they could not be true.”

  “They were,” she said flatly. “I was the Ice Queen, as Anthony labeled me.”

  He smiled at her, the expression too tender for this room and their respective roles. He didn’t touch her. Nor did he say a word. But in the silence she could almost feel his compassion.

  “Pity the girl I was,” she said, her voice steady. “There’s no need to pity me now.”

  “Because he’s dead.”

  She smiled. How quick he was.

  “Because he’s dead,” she said.

  She stood and moved to the window, waiting until she was certain she could speak without her voice trembling.

  “You should have told me, then, that you knew,” she said, her voice vibrating with emotion.

  She was only too familiar with the looks of derision from men and women alike. As if they’d said to her: We choose to participate in Anthony’s entertainments. You have no such choice. And because she didn’t, she was less of a human, less of a woman, less of a person.

  “When, exactly, do you propose that I should’ve told you, Emma? Around the same time you told me you were going to marry my cousin?”

  She glanced at him, startled at his vehemence, and when she saw his expression, she almost took a step back.

  He was as angry as she.

  “In the garden, when we had breakfast together? Or the night in my bed? When, exactly, should we have been honest with one another?”

  “You dared me to be honest,” she said, her anger dissipating as she recalled his words. “And I made the choice not to be.”

  Moonlight glittered on the water. She had no fondness for boats or vessels of any kind, but right at the moment, the lake offered some type of freedom. What would it be like to simply take one of those boats and sail away?

  “I didn’t know Bryce’s name then,” she said. “But if I had, I’m not certain I would have mentioned it. So perhaps your accusation is correct. I didn’t tell you everything.”

  “And I didn’t demand it.”

  “One of us should have,” she said, daring herself to turn and face him. His expression had softened, his eyes revealing too much emotion. She glanced away again.

  “The truth would have done no good,” he said. “It wouldn’t have stopped me from wanting you or taking you to my bed. As for Chavensworth, and the Duke of Herridge, a starved dog is not responsible for his emaciation, Emma.”

  Her smile broke free. “I know you didn’t mean to liken me to a dog, but I get your point well enough.” She didn’t look away. “Don’t paint me as an angel, Ian. I fervently wished for his death. I prayed for it each night, may God forgive me.”

  “Then you should thank God for His blessing,” he said bluntly. “Otherwise, I would take great pleasure in killing the bastard for you.”

  She stared at him, wide-eyed. “I don’t know what to say. No one’s ever offered to kill someone for me.”

  “He deserved it, didn’t he?”

  She looked down at the floor. The boards were bare, well waxed. Were carpets not allowed in here because of disease? She would have to ask Ian later, some other time when other—more important—words weren’t trembling on her tongue.

  “Someone evidently thought so,” she said, glancing at him. “Enough to murder him.”

  Chapter 22

  His face was immobile, his eyes flat and unreadable.

  “Are you going to tell me exactly what you mean, Emma?”

  Her gaze moved to Bryce’s bed, then resolutely back to him.

  “I’ve never told anyone before,” she admitted. “Only one other person knows for sure. The housekeeper at Chavensworth.”

  She came and sat on the edge of the chair, clasping her hands tightly together.

  “We thought he’d died because of his heart,” she said. “Anthony was not a young man, despite his actions. He was found in his library, seated behind his desk. Only later, when the body was being prepared for burial, did the marks become visible.”

  She wrapped her arms around her waist.

  “There were bruis
es all over his neck. Bruises that looked like finger marks. Someone had strangled him.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the authorities?”

  She smiled. “And admit that a great many people had reason for killing Anthony? The fathers of the servant girls he raped at Chavensworth? The husbands of the wives he used as trophies? The men he humiliated? Even me? It wasn’t a case of finding someone with a motive to kill Anthony but eliminating all of those who did.”

  “Not to mention that what happened at Chavensworth wouldn’t simply be rumor anymore,” he said. “The press would have publicized all the lurid details.”

  She nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “You allowed a murderer to go unpunished, Emma.”

  She stared down at her hands. “I allowed a murderer to go unpunished,” she agreed. “I gave instructions that the coffin was to remain closed for the wake. I attended the funeral and Anthony’s interment, and never once thought to contact the authorities.”

  “And the housekeeper?”

  She smiled again. “Servants wear a mask around us, have you ever noticed? At least the ones who worked for Anthony did. I saw more emotion in Mrs. Turner’s eyes that day than I ever had before. She felt only relief that he was dead. I know that she’ll never speak of it.”

  Her smile vanished as she looked over at him. “Do you want to know the horrid truth, Ian? Anthony’s sins were greater than those of his murderer. The only emotion I’ve ever seen expressed at news of his death was relief.”

  He sat back in the chair, his gaze focused on Bryce’s face.

  “Someone killed him,” he said. “Someone who might have poisoned Bryce.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” she said. “Any more than I poisoned Bryce.”

  The look of surprise on his face was gratifying. “Don’t be absurd,” he said.

  “Is it absurd?” Again she clasped her hands together. “I certainly wanted Anthony dead.” She glanced at the bed. “I didn’t want Bryce as a husband.”

  “The Duke of Herridge was a man of some stature. You wouldn’t have been able to strangle him.”

  She nodded. “I could have hired someone to do it for me.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have.”

  She regarded him steadily.

  “Why do you have such faith in me?”

  “Because of the look of sadness in your eyes, Emma. If you’d murdered Anthony, I doubt you would be as sad.”

  She was so overwhelmed by his words that she had to look away.

  “But you may have an admirer,” he said, startling her.

  “An admirer?”

  Slowly, he turned toward her. “Did you never think of that? Anthony could have died because of what he did to you. And Bryce could have been a target because he was your husband. Someone who can’t bear you to be married might have killed them both.”

  She’d never thought of such a thing.

  “Is there anyone who’s expressed an interest in you?”

  “Other than you?”

  “Shall we both suspect each other?” His smile robbed the words of their sting. “We’re a pair, aren’t we?”

  But they weren’t, a fact she had to keep reminding herself.

  “After Anthony died, I made a list of people who might want him dead. I am not exaggerating when I say it was a very long list.”

  “What about men who were interested in you?”

  She smiled. “I was the Ice Queen. No one was allowed to speak to me.”

  “There must have been someone.”

  She was not going to tell him what it was like to be naked and shamed in front of a hundred or more people, held captive to her thronelike chair by threats.

  If one of the revelers won a round of a game, or pleased Anthony in some way—by loaning a daughter or sister or wife for the night—he allowed the man to mount the three steps to the stage in order to taunt her.

  Sometimes the winner was masked, but more often than not, he was naked in face and body. All activity on the ballroom floor ceased so that Anthony’s guests could witness the reward. The winner would circle the throne, stretch out a hand to Emma, fingers never quite touching. Sometimes he’d simply whisper to her all those delightful things he’d do to her if she were available to him. Sometimes he’d hint that Anthony was tired of her, and close to accepting that he’d never have an heir from her, so that she’d be fodder for their games soon enough.

  Could one of those men, or one in the audience, have developed protective feelings for her? The idea that a visitor to Chavensworth might be behind Anthony’s death and Bryce’s poisoning was horrifying. The idea that he might think she felt something for him was even more frightening.

  “I’ll try to remember,” she said, wishing he hadn’t asked it of her.

  As if he knew she couldn’t bear any more talk of Chavensworth, he handed her another cup of tea.

  “Eat your dinner,” he said softly.

  She smiled her thanks and finished the dinner he’d brought for her, saying nothing when he reached for one of the rolls held in a small silver container. When she was done, Emma sat back against the chair, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was exhausted but determined to sit up with Bryce.

  The hours passed slowly, ticking by without a clock to measure them.

  They spoke of commonsense things, the time of night, the weather, Bryce’s condition. Emma bathed her husband’s face and hands again, and placed her palm on his forehead, thinking it odd that it was the first kind gesture she’d made toward him. When she turned, it was to find Ian staring at her, a look in his eyes she couldn’t decipher.

  A few times they were silent, as if each wanted to absorb the nearness of the other. Words were unnecessary and would have been an intrusion.

  In the lamplight Ian was even more handsome. His Celtic ancestors had bequeathed him high cheekbones, a sharply defined jaw, and lips that, although full, could be thinned in anger or irritation all too quickly.

  He was not as controlled as other men she’d known. He left no doubt of his opinions on certain matters. There was a passion about him that carried into his daily life—a fascination with the work he’d chosen, an interest in the world around him, irritation at politics. He would love as deeply as he would hate, and the woman in his life would have no doubt of his feelings for her.

  She wanted to ask him to move away. Or to speak of his fiancée, perhaps. Another person needed to be in this room. A chaperone, someone other than an ill husband. A minister, a confessor, a fiancée, even the housekeeper would do. Someone to keep her silent, to keep her from saying those things that would not be wise to say.

  Words such as: Hold me. Do not kiss me, because I have no right to ask you that. But simply hold me, so that I can be reminded of those hours when you did more. Hold me, so that I can feel your arms around me, and your chest against my cheek, so that I might hear the booming beat of your heart and be reminded of a sunny morning in London, of hedonism so perfect that every single moment of it was more real than this scene.

  Ian’s night beard darkened his cheeks. Shadows lay beneath his eyes. His shirt was creased from sitting for so long, and sometime in the passing hours he’d removed his shoes and stockings, leaving his feet naked and bare. Although horribly improper, his bare feet touched her in a silly way, made her want to move a footstool close and lift his feet upon its pillowed softness, push him gently back into the chair and cover him with a blanket. Sleep, she might say, if she were allowed such intimacies. Sleep, Ian, and I’ll watch over you and him.

  She found herself envying the woman he would marry, and that thought, forbidden as it was, had the power to make her realize that what she was doing was wrong. Wrong in the worst of all ways.

  “You should leave,” she said softly, so as not to disturb Bryce.

 
He turned to look at her. She almost asked him not to look at her in such a way but stopped herself. He mustn’t know how she was affected by him, how her body recognized him as if it were a separate entity and not subject to her will.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t quite forget what it had been like to be in Ian’s arms, to have passion sweep through her at his touch. She’d required no aphrodisiacs, no spirits or drugs to induce her euphoria.

  She stood, walked to the window and parted the curtains again.

  “No one would understand if they found us together.”

  “You’re my cousin’s wife. Why shouldn’t we watch over him together?”

  “Because Bryce and I have never had a wedding night,” she said, staring out at the darkness.

  She gave him the truth when it would probably have been better to hide it. Yet he knew the deepest and ugliest secrets she’d hidden for years. What was a bit more candor?

  She turned to face him.

  “Because I’ve been in your bed,” she said softly, “and it’s something I can’t quite forget. Because I vowed that I would never be like those women at Anthony’s entertainments who bragged of their infidelity.”

  He stood and walked toward her, but she held up her hand as if to block his approach.

  The night was late and she was tired. Too tired, perhaps, to hold back her emotions. Even now they were very near the surface. She was suddenly surfeited by an overwhelming grief, although not for Anthony or Bryce.

  She mourned for him, for Ian.

  What would her life have been like if she shared it with him? What would each day bring if she allowed herself to be loved by him?

  That was the reason he should leave. Not because of what anyone else might think but because of what she might do. She was too close to going to him, to framing his face with her hands, to pulling his head down so she might kiss him. Not in gratitude or friendship or a dozen other reasons, but in passion, in desire, to answer her body’s needs and perhaps to ease the ache in her heart.

  Slowly, she dropped her hand. “If you hold any affection for me, Ian,” she said gently, “you’ll leave.”

  “Hardly fair, is it, when you utter your request in such a fashion?”