Lady of Desire (39 page)

“This is not,” he grumbled every few hours, “how I envisioned spending my honeymoon!”

Jacinda was careful to treat him gently, aware that few things could have been more difficult for him than revisiting the setting where he had long ago fled such heartless cruelty. He seemed slightly happier when he rode on top of the coach, lying idly across the secured luggage with his coat off and the sun on his face. She knew he was mentally gathering himself to confront not merely his father, but the painful memories of his distant past. For her part, she wondered what sort of reception she would receive from her in-laws.

The weather remained cooperative, and the major coaching roads were smooth and fast as far as Exeter; but their progress slowed considerably when they ventured westward on smaller, regional byways. Through the rugged Dartmoor terrain they labored, at last crossing the River Tamar into Cornwall. The landscape’s reprieve was brief, for soon Bodmin Moor swallowed them up, in turn—a bleak, sweeping expanse of pensive beauty. Jacinda rode atop the coach with Rackford, watching the cloud shadows sculpt the broad valleys and windswept hills.

As they traveled down the center of the ever-narrowing peninsula, Rackford told her that St. Austell, one of the towns from which his father’s title had been taken, lay about ten miles east. It was famous, he said, for the excellence of its fine hard-paste clay, which was regularly shipped to the famous Midlands potteries to be used in the making of England’s most distinctive porcelain and fine china. Truro, the larger town with its grand, flamboyant cathedral, was situated about fifteen miles farther south.

At half-past seven in the evening of the fourth day, they neared the little fishing village of Perranporth and climbed the dramatic hillside until they could see the ominous, weather-beaten castle overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic.

She glanced at Rackford. He was staring at Torcarrow in brooding defiance, the wind rippling through his sandy hair.

Jacinda’s presence beside him helped him stand firm against the hissing devils in his head that whispered,
You’re worthless
. He stared at Torcarrow in the distance with his fists clenched in long-nursed anger and a shocking degree of childlike fear. He did his best to hide the churning whirlpool of emotion that this homecoming had wrought in him. As their caravan of three carriages rolled up the long drive, she seemed to sense the rising tide of sadness in him.

She took his hand between her own, giving him her silent, sturdy comfort as he struggled to take the grief in stride. He did not wish anyone, not even her, to see the tears that he refused to shed for all that he had lost in this place.

Instead, he clung to bittersweet memories of the happy moments, pointing out the stand of trees where he and his brother had once had a long rope swing, the overgrown garden folly where they had found a nest of baby owls. He could feel the change in the air as they neared the ocean—the steady wind, the abrasive cleansing salt, the scent of which unfurled countless memories that he had deemed forever lost.

As they drove closer, he did not have the heart to point out the family crypt to Jacinda. The small building was modeled on a Grecian temple and sat amid a serene grove of oaks near the ornamental pond. Percy had been laid to rest there among their ancestors; Father, also, would be buried there if the old blighter indeed saw fit to pop off.

Rackford still doubted it, despite his mother’s vows that Truro the Terrible was dying. The man had always seemed to him a force of nature. How could a mighty, evil djinni die?

When they pulled up to the entrance, Jacinda glanced nervously at him. “They’re going to hate me, aren’t they?”

He kissed her hand. “It’s not you they hate, Jas. What they hate is the fact that they cannot control me. Don’t let them get to you.”

He realized that, despite his earlier refusal to come, his mother must have told the servants to expect him at any moment, for six footmen marched out at once and formed a waiting corridor to receive them, while a butler and a heavyset older woman in an apron rushed out of the entrance.

“Oh, it’s Master Billy! Master Billy’s come home!” she called to the rest of the staff. More servants came hurrying out to the front of the house.

Rackford stared incredulously. “Why, it’s Mrs. Landry, our old cook! And Mr. Becket, the butler! I can’t believe they’re still here!” He bounded out of the coach into their midst.

Jacinda fondly watched his exuberant reunion with the kindly old servants who had been with the family since before he was born.

“Dear old Cooky. You are the best part of coming home.” He hugged the plump old woman for a long moment, whispering his gratitude in her ear for the bag of coins she had secretly stowed away in his satchel for him the night he had run away. Her blue eyes twinkled with adoration as she patted his cheek.

“Now, then, Master Billy, I’ve made a special treat for your return to us.”

“Not clotted cream?” he exclaimed in anticipation.

“With black treacle,” she answered knowingly. “Your favorite.”

With a short bark of laughter, he whirled around. “Jacinda! Come here, darling. Meet our cook, Mrs. Landry. You have not
lived
until you’ve had a proper Cornish cream, and Mrs. Landry’s treacle is the envy of the county.”

“Oh, hush. What a charmer you always were even as a boy, Master Billy,” she scolded with a blush of pleasure. “I can’t believe how big you’ve grown!”

He laughed and introduced each of the other servants to his beautiful young bride. They all seemed awed at first by Jacinda’s golden beauty and London-bred sophistication, but her warmth and the laughter in her merry brown eyes quickly put them at ease— and they seemed to have a similar effect on her.

Before long, Mr. Becket bustled them along into the house. “Your rooms have been made ready, Lord and Lady Rackford. This way. The marchioness awaits you.”

They tarried in their rooms just long enough to freshen up and steal a kiss; then they braced themselves and obediently went to pay their respects to Lady Truro.

Alerted of their arrival by a footman, she joined them in the hallway outside his father’s sickroom.

“Mother.” Checking his habitual irritation with the woman, he bent and gave her a dutiful kiss on the cheek. “How are you faring? ”

“I am tired,” she admitted with a sigh full of martyrdom, “but, oh, it is just so good of you to come, William. I was not sure if you would.”

“You have my wife to thank for it,” he said meaningfully.

Lady Truro turned warily to Jacinda.

Jacinda curtseyed, lowering her head. “Madam.”

“How do you do,” his mother said coolly.

“I am so sorry for the sufferings that have been visited upon Lord Truro. It must be a very difficult time for you.”

Her compassionate words took both Rackford and Lady Truro off guard. Why, the girl could be as diplomatic as Lucien when she wanted to, he thought.

“Thank you, my dear,” the marchioness answered cautiously, nodding to her. “I hope you will enjoy your stay. The gardens are in bloom if you care to walk in them, and the beach is very pleasant this time of year—only mind you bring a parasol. The sun is very strong. 'Twill ruin your lovely complexion.“

“Thank you, ma’am. I shall be mindful.”

Rackford was impressed. Lady Truro eyed the eighteen-year-old Jacinda’s milky skin in envy, but said nothing.

It was not lost on Rackford that his mother had still not congratulated them on their marriage nor extended toward Jacinda even a token “welcome to the family.” He pushed the vexing thought aside. “How is he?”

“Weak,” Lady Truro replied, then paused. “And frightened, as well. The paralysis has affected his speech. You mustn’t anger him, William—”

“I never
try
to anger him, Mother.”

“The surgeon, Mr. Plimpton, is with him now. He says His Lordship must be kept calm. Another bout of anger is all that is needed to trigger a second fit of the apoplexy. If that happens, your father will die.”

Rackford considered for a long moment. “Perhaps I shouldn’t go in. He could fly into a rage merely seeing me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will be glad you’ve come. You must go in. You’ve traveled all this way.”

“Aye, on my honeymoon,” he reminded her, resting his hands on his waist.

“Indeed.” The marchioness looked away.

There was an awkward silence.

Rackford exchanged a bolstering look with Jacinda. She gave him a subtle nod.

“Right,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with. You don’t have to go in there with me. It is bound to be unpleasant.”

“I am going with you,” she said firmly, slipping her hand in his.

She followed a step behind him as he opened the door, but Rackford released her hand as he ventured into his father’s chamber. The sight of the man stopped him in his tracks.
My God
.

The surgeon was wrapping the marquess’s arm from the incision where he had just treated his patient with another bloodletting. His father was ghastly pale. The once mighty and terrifying Lord Truro appeared dwarfed in the vast state bed, a ruined god. He seemed to have aged twenty years instead of a mere few weeks since the last time Rackford had seen him. The ruddy tone of his skin had faded to a waxen pallor. The rest of his dark hair had turned gray at his ordeal. His cheeks were hollow, his eyes were sunken, and the left side of his mouth sagged in a permanent snarl. When his gaze swung to them, however, his eyes blazed with a wild emerald brightness, as hellbent as ever.

“So, the vultures have begun circling already,” he drawled, slurring only a little more pronouncedly than when he was foxed.

Jacinda’s eyes widened at his taunting remark, but Rackford’s nostrils flared as he inhaled slowly, determined to keep his cool.

“Try to contain your delight, my lord. I am here for Mother’s sake, not yours.” He sauntered into the chamber with a careless air of insolence.

Mr. Plimpton glanced at him in alarm. “With all due respect, sir, His Lordship is not to be agitated.”

Truro snorted. “Little bastard’s been agitating me since the day he was born.”

“Am I a bastard, Father? Is that why you hate me so?” Rackford asked in a pleasant tone, leaning against the satinwood highboy.

“What do you think?” Truro grumbled.

Jacinda looked from father to son, clearly uncomfortable.

“Don’t worry, wife. I am quite legitimate. Can’t you see the resemblance?” he asked bitterly.

“Rackford,” she warned him softly.

He scowled at her, then folded his arms across his chest and lowered his gaze, stewing. Why had he come here? Simply to give his father one last chance to hurt and humiliate him, this time in front of his bride? He knew that Truro’s hackles were up because his almighty pride could not bear for anyone to see him this way, enfeebled and struck down seemingly by the hand of God as a punishment for his brutality. But Rackford, too, felt himself moving into an equally harsh mood. He could not countenance his father’s insults when he had come all this way just to take the enormous risk of showing one more time that some daft, small part of him… cared.

Jacinda glanced worriedly at him, then broke the stormy silence. “We are very sorry for your suffering, my lord. We have come to do whatever we can to help you recover as speedily as possible.”

“Prettily spoken, child. But I am not a fool.” He dragged his piercing stare away from Rackford and inspected her.

Instantly, Rackford felt his protective instincts rising.

“You’ve merely come to butter me up to make sure I leave you my fortune as well as the properties.”

Perhaps it was so many weeks of managing the famous curmudgeon Lord Drummond that enabled her to smile at Truro’s baiting rudeness. “Don’t be absurd, my lord. I’ve a dowry of a hundred thousand pounds and an estate of my own in Hertfordshire. It was left in trust to me as a wedding gift from my papa, the eighth duke of Hawkscliffe,” she said, her tone sharpening ever so slightly as she reminded him of her rank, “who—if we are speaking vulgarly—was as rich as Croesus. Rackford and I shan’t starve.”

“Well, you are a cheeky thing, ain’t you?”

“I give as good as I get, my lord. That is all.”

“Damn your impudence, girl—”

“Father,” Rackford warned between gritted teeth, “you are speaking to my wife.”

“Perhaps Lord and Lady Rackford should withdraw, ” Mr. Plimpton said anxiously.

“Ach, let them stay,” Truro grumbled. “They’re not upsetting me.”

“No, Father. You must listen to your doctor,” Rackford said coldly. “Come along, Jacinda.”

But she did not follow. Standing by Truro’s bedside, she folded her arms across her chest and studied him.

“What’s this, you want to climb into bed with me?”

“Father!” Rackford said, aghast, but Jacinda merely rolled her eyes.

“You don’t frighten me, you know, nor do I shock easily.”

“No wonder, considering who your mother was.”

“That will do, sir!” Rackford feared he would have a fit of apoplexy himself if his father said one more indecent word to his bride.

“It’s all right, Rackford,” Jacinda said drily, noting his appalled expression. “His comments don’t bother me. At least he says them to my face. To be sure, he is an ogre, but I actually think… this may be his way of being friendly.”

The fixed snarl on Truro’s lips widened in what might have been a piratelike, lopsided sort of grin. “Bugger off, ye cheeky wench!”

“Humph,” she answered skeptically. “Get your rest, you ogre. With any luck, it may improve your disposition.”

Rackford put his arm around her and escorted her bodily out of the sickroom. In the corridor, she waved off his flurry of mortified apologies with a little laugh.

“We’ll leave immediately—”

“Nonsense. Do you want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he successfully chased us off within ten minutes? Come, show me to the kitchens! I want to try this fabled Cornish cream.”

He gazed thoughtfully at her for a second, then shrugged, sighed, and shook his head. She smiled and tucked her dainty hand through the crook of his arm; he escorted her to Cook’s domain in the back of the house.