A Kiss to Remember (28 page)

For a minute, he was afraid he’d gone too far, but Thane only shook his head, smiling ruefully. “We’re a fine pair, aren’t we? One too stubborn to hang on to a woman and one too stubborn to let her go.” He rose and crossed to the door. “If you decide to get married again tomorrow, you know where to find me.”

Then he was gone, leaving Sterling all alone with only his ghosts and his pride for company.

Someone had seen to it that the duke’s bride would have no lack of creature comforts. A fire burned on the bedchamber grate, its crackling flames dwarfed by a massive chimneypiece carved from pure white marble. A silver tray had been left on the table in the adjoining sitting room. Laura peeked beneath its lid to find an unidentified slab of meat smothered in a rich cream sauce. She quickly replaced it, wishing desperately for some of Cookie’s gingerbread, warm from the oven.

She wandered back into the bedchamber. It took her a moment to work up the courage to draw back the heavy bed hangings. She was half-afraid she might find the bleached bones of the last duchess who had occupied this suite. But all she found was a set of neatly turned-back sheets beneath a satin counterpane, a downy nest of pillows, and a diaphanous nightdress and matching wrapper woven from shimmering white silk. Laura held the nightdress up to the firelight, shocked by its transparency. Since her own trunks weren’t scheduled to arrive from Arden until tomorrow, she supposed she had no choice but to don it or sleep in her shift.

Finding nothing better to occupy herself, Laura undressed and poured some lavender-scented water from a pitcher into a china washbasin. After she had bathed, scrubbed her teeth, and worked the pins from her hair, she slipped into the nightdress. The sheer fabric caressed her skin but did little to warm it. Despite the fire,
an oppressive chill clung to the air, its dampness underscored by the sheets of rain battering the tall, arched windows. The high-ceilinged chamber would probably be as cold as a tomb in the winter. Shivering, Laura whisked back the hangings and bounded into the bed.

She sank into the feather mattress, feeling positively lost in the vast sea of bedclothes. She wished Lottie were there to scramble into the bed with her, to snuggle close and giggle over the ridiculous extravagance of it all.

But it wouldn’t be Lottie joining her tonight. It would be her husband.

Laura sat up abruptly, hugging her knees to her chest. It was her wedding night, and once again she had no idea where her bridegroom was. Was he barricaded downstairs somewhere, fortifying himself with brandy so he could bear the sight of her?

She drew the garnet ring out of her nightdress and held it up to the firelight, remembering the tender look in his eyes when he had slid it onto her finger, a look she would probably never see again. She slipped the silver chain over her head and tucked the ring beneath her pillow for safekeeping. After a moment’s thought, she tugged off the duke’s ornate signet ring, drew back the bed hangings, and tossed it onto a nearby table. The thing landed with a satisfying
clunk.

She fell back on the pillows and closed her eyes, her breath escaping in a melancholy sigh. She must have dozed off without realizing it, for when she opened her eyes again, feeling groggy and out of sorts, a clock was just beginning to chime somewhere in the house. Laura counted each mournful
bong
until she reached twelve.

The clock ceased its chiming, leaving behind a hush
so uncanny she might have been the only living soul in the house. Or the world.

Her bridegroom wasn’t coming. That whisper of truth echoed through the silence more clearly than any shout.

Laura threw herself to her side, thinking how relieved she ought to be. She wouldn’t have to endure the treacherous tenderness of Sterling’s caresses. Wouldn’t have to wonder if he was mocking her with his whispered endearments, his melting kisses.

But as she lay there, as stiff as a poker, she could feel herself growing angrier and angrier. She remembered how he had ignored his mother’s letters for all those years, how Lady Eleanor had struggled to paste on a brave smile each morning when the post came and there was still no word from him. As much as she had loved and admired her guardian, Laura had never quite achieved the dear woman’s forbearance. She was rapidly discovering that she could tolerate Sterling’s contempt but not his indifference. She would rather he shout at her or shake her than ignore her.

Sitting up, Laura threw back the bedclothes. It might come as a shock to His Exalted Grace, but she had no intention of spending the rest of her life trading insults with his crabby cousin and languishing about in bed, wondering if he was ever going to pay her a visit. If he wouldn’t come to her on their wedding night, then by God, she would go to him.

After battling her way through the smothering weight of the bed hangings, Laura dragged the wrapper on over her nightdress and jerked a knot in the sash. She jammed one of the candles into a silver candlestick,
and went storming from the chamber, wishing the door wasn’t too heavy to slam behind her.

Within five minutes, Laura was so lost she didn’t think she would ever find the duchess’s suite again, much less the duke’s. She had assumed that if she kept veering in the same direction, she would eventually reach the west wing. But the house was a labyrinth of endless corridors, each longer and more confusing than the last. Laura traveled for a very long time without encountering any sign of life at all. Even a mouse would have been a comfort.

She hadn’t bothered to ask which floor the duke’s suite occupied, but she was hoping all the bedchambers would be on the same floor. That hope was quenched when the corridor she was traveling abruptly dead-ended in a flight of stairs.

She tried to circle back the way she had come, but ended up on an unfamiliar balcony overlooking what appeared to be a shadowy ballroom large enough to encompass all of Arden Manor, even the gardens. She sighed, wondering what Lottie would do if she found herself in this predicament. Probably sit down in the middle of the floor and start wailing at the top of her lungs until someone came running. Laura was tempted to do just that, but she was afraid no one would hear her or care enough to come running.

A Turkish rug the color of blood ran the length of the balcony, muffling her footsteps to a whisper. Shadows gathered in the corners of the towering ceilings, dwarfing the feeble flicker of her candle. As an
impish draft toyed with its flame, Laura cupped a hand around it, her steps faltering.

As she rounded the next corner, a portrait gallery unfurled before her in all of its grim glory. By day, the room was probably just spooky; by night, it was terrifying.

“Don’t be silly, Laura,” she scolded herself through her chattering teeth. “There’s no need to be afraid of a bunch of dead people.”

Already ruing her unfortunate choice of words, she forced herself to march forward. She studiously fixed her gaze on the ornately carved double doors at the far end of the gallery, but she could still feel the suspicious eyes of Sterling’s ancestors following her every step.

She was so relieved to finally reach the end of the gallery that she didn’t see the life-sized portrait hanging over the door until she was almost upon it. As the candlelight danced upward, she recoiled with a startled gasp.

A man was sneering down his long, pinched nose at her, his icy eyes glittering with contempt. As Laura read the brass plaque beneath the portrait, she realized she was gazing up into the sunken face of old Granville Harlow himself. Dressed all in black, he clutched a silver walking stick in one pale hand.

It was difficult to believe such a man could have ever sired a little girl. Laura didn’t know whom to pity more—Diana or her mother. Lady Eleanor had rarely spoken of the duke who had adopted her son. Now Laura understood why.

For the first time, she wondered how Sterling must have felt his first night in this drafty mausoleum of a house. Betrayed by his father, torn away from the
mother he loved, had he huddled beneath the blankets, shivering in some unfamiliar bed? Or had he wandered these very halls, lost and alone, knowing no one would hear him if he cried?

A brindle mastiff who could very well have been the grandsire of Sterling’s dogs sat beside the duke. If including the dog had been the artist’s attempt to make his subject appear more approachable, he had failed miserably. The man’s spidery fingers were curled around the beast’s collar as if he couldn’t wait to sic him on the next saucy young upstart who dared to defy him.

A low-pitched growl came out of the darkness behind Laura, lifting every hair on her nape. She had forgotten all about Sterling’s devil dogs until that moment. She should have known he would allow them to roam the house by night. How else were they to rip out the throat of any intruder? Or any hapless bride foolish enough to abandon the refuge of her bed?

The growl came again, rumbling with menace. Laura yelped and dropped the candle, plunging the gallery into darkness. She slowly turned, flattening herself against the door. All she could see was the malevolent reddish glow of two pairs of eyes.

“Nice doggies,” she whispered, struggling to swallow past the lump of terror in her throat. “Good doggies. You’re not hungry, are you? I certainly hope not because I haven’t much meat on my bones. Cookie has been trying to fatten me up for years, but hasn’t had much success.”

The dogs padded closer, so close she could feel their hot, musky breath. Whimpering, Laura turned her face to the side.

She told herself later that she never would have screamed, that she would have surrendered herself to her fate with at least a modicum of dignity if one of the beasts hadn’t chosen that moment to ram his big, wet nose soundly into her crotch.

Laura let out an earsplitting shriek. The door behind her was suddenly swept open. She went tumbling into the room, her shriek dying on a startled note. She slowly opened her eyes to find her husband standing over her, arms akimbo.

“My, my,” he said, cocking one eyebrow. “Look what the dog dragged in.”

Laura Slowy lifted
her head. The savage beasts who had been an inch away from ripping out her intestines were now sitting back on their haunches with their tongues lolling out, just two overgrown puppies with only one goal in life—pleasing their master. A master who was looking none too pleased at the moment.

Sterling reluctantly offered her a hand. Laura took it, allowing him to haul her to her feet and pretending not to notice when he immediately withdrew it.

She brushed an invisible speck of dust from the skirt of her wrapper, still nursing her bruised dignity. “You’re lucky you didn’t have to step over my eviscerated body on the way to breakfast in the morning. Of course, according to your friend the marquess, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding another bride to replace me.”

“Ah, but where would I find one so infinitely intriguing?”

Sterling seemed determined to keep a barrier between them, even if it was only the muscular arms
folded over his shirtless chest. Remembering the salty-sweet taste of his skin beneath her tongue, Laura felt her mouth go dry. She lowered her eyes, then wished she hadn’t. The top two buttons of his trousers were unfastened, revealing a triangle of skin a shade paler than his chest.

Following the direction of her gaze, he abruptly turned away to retrieve two thick slices of pork from his own untouched supper tray. He gave one to each of the dogs, along with an affectionate scratch behind the ears. They went padding back into the gloom of the portrait gallery with their prizes, leaving Sterling to close the door behind them.

“And what would you have given them had they brought you one of my ribs?” Laura asked. “A rack of lamb?”

He leaned against the door. “Contrary to their appearance, they haven’t a vicious bone in their bodies. They were much more likely to have licked you to death.” Although his provocative words sent a shiver of awareness dancing through Laura’s veins, his sulky expression never changed.

To escape it, she turned and studied the chamber. The duke’s suite was even more ostentatious than her own. The massive bed was a twin to hers, but draped with hangings of midnight blue velvet that had been gathered at each corner with gold cords. Although Sterling’s hair was tousled and his lids heavy, the bedclothes were undisturbed.

“So this is your suite,” she murmured, taking in the fire crackling beneath a mantel of black marble, the domed skylight paneled in stained glass, the freestanding
columns carved from jasper, the gilded cheval glass perched near the foot of the bed.

“This is my uncle’s suite,” Sterling said flatly. At her surprised look, he added, “Diana has been the only occupant of Devonbrooke Hall since he died six years ago. I’ve been off with the army for over a decade. On those occasions when I did visit London, I preferred to stay at Thane’s.”

She dared a sheepish smile. “I don’t suppose you were with the infantry, were you?”

“I was an officer,” he informed her gently.

Laura barely resisted the urge to spring to full attention and snap off a salute. “That must be why you’re so accustomed to having everyone scramble to obey your every order.”

“Everyone but you, of course.” He strode to a table and poured a splash of something amber into a glass.

She’d been wrong about the brandy. This appeared to be his first drink of the night. Perhaps he only required fortifying when she was directly in his line of sight.

He swung one leg over a delicate Chippendale chair, straddling it backward, and waved the glass in her direction. “So would you care to explain what you were doing wandering about this musty old tomb in the dead of night?”

Laura sank down on the chaise longue opposite him. The cushions of the single-ended couch were still warm, as if someone had been sleeping on them. “I was lost.”

“Then you have my sincere sympathy.” He took a sip of the liquor. “I used to get lost in this house all the time as a child. I once ended up in the solarium in the
middle of the night, battling an ivy vine to the death. Diana found me the next morning, curled up on the floor sound asleep with the vine still wrapped around my throat.”