Guilty Series (109 page)

“I remember. I was in St. Petersburg.” He frowned, trying to understand. “So, because you hit your head, your ears ring? Doctors cannot cure it?”

“No. I have this noise in my head all the time. It's an unwavering whine, like a tuning fork not quite on pitch. I can't sleep sometimes. I get headaches. I used to take opium and smoke hashish to blunt it, but it never went away. For five years,
I couldn't compose. I kept publishing old pieces. Things I had already written. I thought I'd never write music again. It was hell.”

He knew what music meant to Dylan. It was his lifeblood. It was everything. “I see.”

“I almost killed myself. I put a pistol under my chin and cocked the hammer.”

Ian sat up straight in his chair. “God, Dylan!”

“Rattled you at last, I see. But it's the truth.”

“What stopped you?”

“Grace.” He smiled, his face lighting up as it always did when he mentioned his wife. “She saved my life. Literally and figuratively. When I first saw her, I heard music, and I was so surprised because I hadn't heard music in years. I thought she was my muse. I lowered the gun, and she took it out of my hand, telling me I had no business killing myself.” He paused. “I think I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. Heaven knows, I needed her. I still do. I need her every single day.”

Ian was beginning to know all about need. “So, you can no longer compose because of this noise?”

“I have learned to work around it. Isabel helps me. She has so much talent, Ian, more talent than I, really. Music comes so easily to her, as it used to do for me. Composing will never be easy for me again, but at least I am once again able to do it.”

“I'm glad, and I'm glad you told me about this, that you finally felt you could.” He leaned back
in his chair. “Well, this explains a lot. You've always been wild, God knows, but your behavior became so erratic, I knew something was very wrong. I just didn't know what it was. Why didn't you tell me sooner?”

“I don't know. I suppose—” He paused, frowning. “I suppose I thought you wouldn't understand. You are such a disciplined person, I feared you would tell me to just get over it and stop feeling sorry for myself. Which is, of course, what I was doing, but I dreaded hearing it, especially from you.”

“I would not have said that.” His brother's dis-believing look impelled him to add, “I might have thought it, but I would not have said it. I am the diplomat, after all. The man of tact and discretion who always says and does the right thing.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

Dylan leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “What's going to happen now? You'll have to marry the girl, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

“Will you lose your position over this?”

Ian pressed two fingers to his forehead. He did not want to believe everything he'd worked for was now in ruins, but he could not deny the truth. “Of course. The Prime Minister doesn't take kindly to scandals. This is the Age of Reform, you know.”

“I'm sorry, Ian. I know your work means as much to you as mine does to me, and I know what it's like to lose it.”

Ian lowered his hand and stood up. “I have no one to blame but myself,” he said, his dishonor a bitter taste in his mouth. “Knowing Prince Cesare, I shall be fortunate if he does not send the
carbinieri
after me and have me shot.”

 

Grace arranged for Ian to come to her that afternoon in a little-used writing room that overlooked the front of the house. As she waited, Lucia stood by the windows, watching guests climb into their carriages and depart. Thankfully, most of them had chosen to leave that afternoon, rather than linger another day in the stifling awkwardness of the situation.

Lucia watched them go, sipping the Madeira Grace had given her for her nerves. It wasn't helping much in that regard, but when Ian entered the room, she took one glance at his face and downed all the sweet liquor in a gulp. For what she had to say, she needed all the fortification she could get.

“We'll be married in three weeks,” he said before she could speak. His words were brusque, his face unreadable. “Grace tells me you are willing to become Anglican, which simplifies matters. After I have talked with your father, banns will be posted. We'll have the wedding in the ducal chapel here at Tremore.”

Though there was no tenderness in his voice, relief flooded through her at his words, such enormous relief that it made her weak in the knees. Even though she already knew his sense
of honor, and even though Grace had told her his intent, she was so glad to hear him say it. “Thank you.”

“I'm leaving for London today. You're staying here.”

“Yes. Grace told me.”

“Your father arrives in two days, and I have to tell him what happened. For your sake and, I must confess, for mine, I would prefer to avoid it.” His face twisted, his composure faltered a little. “I have faced many difficult meetings in my life, but truth be told, I do not know how to look a man in the eye and tell him I violated his daughter.”

“Don't!” she cried. “Do not berate yourself this way!”

“Why not?” The diplomat returned, grave, cool, and distant. “It is no less than I deserve. But,” he went on before she could make another protest, “Prince Cesare's requirements for the man you marry make me a wholly unsuitable candidate. And your departure from the Catholic faith will enrage him. Unless he is told the exact circumstances, he will never give his consent.”

“Yes,” she said with a hint of irony she knew he did not understand. “I know.”

“Good.” He turned to leave. “My carriage is waiting.”

“Don't go yet, please,” she said, her words stopping him. “Before you leave, there is something I must tell you. Something you must know about…about what happened between us.”

“I think I have a pretty clear recollection of what happened between us, thank you.”

“Ian, this is very difficult for me to say. Please do not make it more so.”

His face grew taut. “What do you want to tell me?”

She clasped her hands, drew them to her mouth, and prayed for composure. This was the hardest thing she'd ever had to do because she knew he would hate her for it, but she had to tell him. She lowered her hands, lifted her head, and looked at him. “I had to make a choice,” she said simply. “And I made it. That's why this happened.”

“What do you mean? You didn't have the choice. I took the choice away from you.”

“No, Ian. You did not.”

“Lucia, don't you understand, even now, what I did? I could not stop.” He exhaled a sharp breath. “God help me, I could not stop myself.”

“I understand perfectly.” Her voice shook, and she forced herself to steady it. “As I said, I made my choice. I chose
you.
I said the things I said in the conservatory because I knew what would happen. I knew you wanted me, and I knew I could—” She stopped and swallowed hard. “I knew I could break you, Ian. So I did.”

He stared at her, comprehension dawning in his face. “You wanted me to do it? In heaven's name, why?”

“So that you would marry me. I knew—” She paused, fighting not to shrink from the condemnation hardening his face. At least now he would
blame her fully, and not condemn himself. “I knew you would insist upon marrying me, and that when my father learned what you did, he would have no choice but to give his consent. So you see, I chose you.”

The silence was terrible. It seemed endless.

When he spoke, his voice was low, calm and deadly. “You pushed me on purpose, hoping I would…” A muscle worked in his jaw. “You intended this outcome?”

“Yes.”

“I don't suppose it occurred to you to consult me on the matter beforehand and find out what my wishes might have been about marrying you?”

“No.” She watched his eyes take on the frost of arctic lakes. They were so cold, she shivered inside. “I was afraid you would refuse. Even though the ruby told me you might have…have some regard for me, I know you do not want to marry. And even if you…” She faltered, and tried again. “Even if you cared enough for me to agree, I knew my father would never consent because you are not Catholic, and because you have no title. So I pushed you over the edge, I impelled you to do what you did. Now my father has to accept you as my choice because I am ruined and I might be carrying a child. Your…your child.”

“You manipulated me.”

The quiet accusation was like the lash of a whip, but she did not flinch. “Yes.”

“I will lose my ambassadorship.”

“I did not know that would happen.” She began to shake, the emotions of the day threatening to overwhelm her. “I am so sorry.”

His eyes narrowed. “And Lady Sarah and Lord Blair? I suppose they were there to bear witness?”

She stared at him as the implication of his question hit her.
“Ma insomma!”
she breathed. “You think I…that I had them come…you think I
arranged
for them to see us?”

Emotionless gray eyes assessed her. “Did you?”

She pressed her shaking hand to her mouth, dismayed. That he would think such a thing had not occurred to her, but she could hardly blame him for it. “No,” she answered, knowing even as she said it that he did not believe her. Why should he? The tears that had been threatening all day to fall began spilling down her cheeks, and she wished she possessed even a fraction of his sang-froid.

His lips pressed into a tight line. He turned away, reaching for his hat. “My duty is clear. You're getting me for a bridegroom, which is what you wanted.” He slapped the hat against his palm. “But then, you always get what you want in the end, don't you?”

The bitter tinge of his voice was unmistakable. He turned away and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Lucia ran to the window and watched through a blurry haze as he got into his carriage.

“I'm sorry, Ian,” she whispered, finally saying the most important part as the carriage drove away. “I'm so sorry. But I couldn't choose anyone else. I couldn't bear to give another man the right to touch me the way you did.”

T
he wedding of Sir Ian Moore and Miss Lucia Valenti took place early on a rainy September morning at Tremore Hall's ducal chapel. The bride wore a silk gown of the palest magnolia pink, embroidered with pink and white seed pearls. In the tradition of her home country, a veil covered her face. The groom wore an impeccable morning suit of midnight blue. The mother of the bride did not attend, which was appropriate. The father of the bride was also absent, which was understandable. The Duke of Tremore escorted the bride to the altar. As for the bride herself, she was of trying hard not to throw up.

Three weeks had not done much to put Ian in a more forgiving frame of mind, or if it had, Lucia
wouldn't know it, for she had not heard from him at all. Grace had received one brief letter confirming the worst: Though they had not stripped Ian of his knighthood, they had taken away his ambassadorship. He had gone to Plumfield, his estate in Devonshire, to make things ready there, arriving back at Tremore late the night before the wedding. Now, as she started up the aisle on the duke's arm, Lucia saw Ian's face for the first time in three weeks, and she found it just as hard and implacable as it had been when he'd left.

As she made her way toward him, her stomach in knots, she could read nothing in his face. As they spoke their vows, his voice was grave and composed. When he lifted her veil, she smiled at him, but he did not smile back.

Now husband and wife, they left the chapel together and led the way to Tremore's dining room for the wedding breakfast. As they walked side by side, Ian did not say a word, and Lucia tried to reassure herself with the phrases she'd been repeating for days. Everything would be all right. He would come to understand the reasons for what she'd done. She would make him a good wife. He would become content and not regret the loss of his career. He would learn to love her. She loved him. That, at least, was true. The rest sounded a lot like wishful thinking.

 

Because it was a ten-hour journey to Plumfield that Ian wanted to make without stopping over
night along the way, the newly married couple departed right after the wedding breakfast. Lucia was glad of it, for the breakfast seemed to be an incredibly awkward affair. The customary toast to their health was made by Ian's grooms-man, a certain Lord Stanton, whose scrutiny of her whenever she chanced to look at him was rather unnerving. The guests amounted to a dozen in all, and though Daphne was a superb hostess, conversation was stilted at best. After all, what was there to say?

Her husband seemed to share this view. As the carriage taking them to Devonshire rolled through the countryside, the silence was like a wall between them. Lucia knew she had to find a way to break down that wall. She began with conversation.

“So, our home is called Plumfield. Do we grow plums, then?”

“Yes. Plums, pears, apples. And there are tenant farms, of course.” He leaned down, slid a traveling case from beneath the seat, pulled out a newspaper, and slid the case back. He opened the newspaper in front of his face, visible evidence of the wall. As if she needed any.

She tried again. “What does Devonshire look like?” She glanced at the rain-washed countryside. “Is it like this? All green and pretty?”

“Some of it, yes.”

“What is our house like?”

“You'll see it when we get there.”

Silence fell again, lengthened from seconds
into minutes. Clearly, conversation was not working. She changed tactics.

“Ian?”

“Yes, Lucia?”

She yawned. “I'm very sleepy.”

He turned a page. “Take a nap.”

“I don't have a pillow.”

There was a heavy sigh from the other side of the
Times.
He slid the paper down and looked at her. She looked at him, waiting, hoping he would take the hint.

He did, though he looked less than happy about it. He shoved himself away from his side of the carriage and moved to her side, settling beside her to offer his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said, curled an arm around his waist, and lapsed into silence. As they made the journey into Devonshire, he read his newspaper, and she made no further attempts at conversation. Instead, she savored the solid strength of his shoulder beneath her cheek, telling herself that even stone walls could be chipped away, bit by bit.

She loved him. That love and a place to call home were enough for her, but she knew they weren't enough for him. She was determined to find a way to change that.

Relentless, Ian had called her once. She supposed she was, because she was going to be relentless about making up for what she'd done to him. And there was a lot to make up for. She had ruined his career, the thing that mattered more
to him than anything else. Even worse, she had caused him—the most honorable and discreet of men—to be the victim of public disgrace and humiliation. She had not done that part on purpose, but it had happened because of her.

She knew what it must have cost him to face her father, endure the gossip, give up his livelihood. It might take her the rest of her life, but Lucia vowed that she was going to make him happy. She was going to make him glad he had married her. Tonight, she decided as she fell asleep against his shoulder, would be a perfect time to start.

 

It was intolerable. There was no way a man could read a newspaper in peace when his wife was using his shoulder for a pillow and her arm was curled around his waist. It was too distracting. Even now, after everything that had happened, her touch could arouse him in an instant.

His wife. A wife, he reminded himself, who had cost him dearly.

Ian closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the padded back of the coach. Cesare's fury had been a sight to behold. If there had been a pistol or knife anywhere in the prince's vicinity as he'd heard the explanations of just what the compromising situation had been, Ian knew he'd be dead right now. As it was, the prince who had once regarded him as a trusted friend had looked at him with contempt and called him an animal. And he was. The prince
had demanded that the British government revoke Ian's ambassadorship. And they had.

Now, he was thoroughly at loose ends. Deprived of the one thing that had given his life meaning, he did not know what he was going to do with his time. As he contemplated the life that stretched before him, his heart felt leaden. After over a decade in the diplomatic corps, Ian could not help regarding the life of a country squire as an empty and purposeless existence, filled with endless rounds of race meetings and foxhunts, county balls and London seasons.

He opened his eyes and fingered the folded edge of the newspaper. He always read the important English and European papers every day, no matter where he was. Not doing so was as unthinkable to him as wearing limp linen or going to a dinner party without a fresh shave. Even now, when his world had narrowed to a small slice of the Devonshire countryside, he still cared about world affairs. He did not know how to accept that he was no longer a part of them.

Lucia stirred in her sleep beside him, and he glanced at her. She was curled up on the seat in a most awkward way, and her head was jammed against the side of his shoulder. If she stayed in that position, she would have a crick in her neck, sore muscles, and probably a headache, too, when she woke up.

Ian sighed and tossed the
Times
onto the opposite seat. Carefully, so as not to wake her, he eased her onto his lap and put an arm around
her shoulders to support her back. She gave a sigh, stretched out her legs along the seat, and snuggled her face against the dent of his shoulder. As she slept, Ian stared out the window at a stretch of wet English meadow. He inhaled the scent of apple blossoms in his wife's hair and tried not to care what was going on in Constantinople.

 

Lucia hoped that her wedding night would provide her with the opportunity to begin making Ian happy, but she found her plan dashed in very short order. They arrived at Plumfield around eleven o'clock in the evening. After a quick introduction to the upper servants and a late supper, Ian showed her to her room. He commented that she must be very tired after the journey, said he'd see her in the morning, gave her a kiss good night—on the forehead—and went next door to sleep in his own room.

It seemed she was going to spend her wedding night alone.

Lucia stood in her bedchamber, feeling surprised, dismayed, and rather aggrieved. Their marriage had gotten off to a bad start, but during the three weeks leading up to this day, the one thing she hadn't had doubts about was Ian's desire for her. She stared at the connecting door between their rooms, and she was tempted just to march on through it, throw him down, and kiss him until he couldn't resist her anymore.

A scratch sounded on her door, and a maid
entered carrying a kettle of steaming water, fresh towels, and soap. “If you please, ma'am,” the woman about her own age said with a curtsy, “the master sent me to wait on you. My name is Nan Jones.”

The maid crossed the room and poured water into a white porcelain bowl on the oak dressing table, placed a plate of soaps beside it, and turned to her. “I hope you like your room,” she said, a little shyly. “Mrs. Wells, the housekeeper—you met her earlier, ma'am—picked all the fabrics and things. She and I did the room up.”

Lucia looked around. Lamps had been lit, throwing a soft glow over walls of creamy yellow. A carved oak bed, dressed in ivory linens and pillows, was topped by a crown-shaped canopy of golden-yellow velvet and flanked by two night tables. The bed draperies were tied back against the canopy's four supporting posts with ivory silk ribbon. In front of the bed was a chaise longue of gold-and-white stripes. The room was a large one, and possessed not only a closet, but also a pair of immense armoires, their panels painted in the Italian style. Two comfortable chairs of yellow-patterned floral chintz stood in front of the Siena marble fireplace. The floor was covered in a carpet of soft browns, golden yellow, and deep red.

“It's lovely,” she said, smiling. “I wouldn't change a thing.”

“Oh, Mrs. Wells will be ever so glad! The master told us when he came home three weeks ago
that he was getting married, and you could've knocked us over with a feather, we was that surprised. With the master gone so much, we'd given up ever seeing a mistress here at Plumfield. The master said as yellow was your favorite color, he wanted your room done up that way before he brought you home.”

“Ian had the room redone for me?” Pleasure and hope warmed her deep inside.

“Yes, ma'am. It was blue before.” She walked to the armoires and opened one of them. “Would you like to change into nightclothes, then have a wash before bed?”

“Yes, thank you, Nan.” The other woman assisted her out of her clothes, then helped her don one of the soft, lacy nightdresses of her bridal trousseau. As the other woman fastened the buttons, Lucia asked, “Are you going to be my permanent maid?”

The question flustered the servant. “Oh, ma'am, I'm just first parlormaid. I've never been a lady's maid. There hasn't been a lady's maid at Plumfield since the master's mother died, and that was well before my time. The master sent me to do for you, but he thought you'd be wanting to choose your own maid later on.”

Lucia studied her for a moment. “Would you like to do for me permanently, Nan?”

“Oh, yes! Thank you, ma'am. I'd like that ever so much.” Her face shone with such pleasure that Lucia laughed.

As Nan gathered up her traveling clothes to be
laundered, Lucia walked over to the dressing table. She wetted her face, then began lathering soap and caught the scent of apple blossoms. Her favorite. “Did my husband give instructions about the soap, too?” she asked.

“Yes, ma'am.” Nan laughed. “We make apple blossom soap here, so there's plenty of it. We also make pear oil soap, but he said no pear, only apple. He was very firm about that.”

With those words, Lucia's spirits rose another notch. She looked in the mirror and stared at the reflection of the closed door between her chamber and Ian's, and she abandoned her previous plan. Though she hadn't planned on spending her wedding night alone, such a circumstance might serve her better in the long run.

Nothing whetted the appetite better than anticipation and imagination. Lucia decided she was going to start whetting her husband's appetite for her first thing tomorrow.

 

Ian was by nature an early riser, and he had a set routine for himself and his household when he was in residence at Plumfield. He always rose at seven, took a horseback ride, then breakfasted at nine and read the morning post.

By the time he returned from his morning ride, Lucia was up and about. He found her in the writing room, a small study beside the drawing room where the mistresses of Plumfield always wrote their letters in the mornings. With her
were Atherton, his butler, Mrs. Richards, his cook, and Mrs. Wells, his housekeeper. She looked up from the writing desk when he came in and turned one of her beaming smiles on him. “Ian! Good morning.”

The servants turned to him with bows and curtsies. “Morning, sir,” they said in unison.

He nodded to them, then looked at Lucia. “Going over the household routine?”

“Yes. I hope you do not mind?”

“Not at all. I would expect you to do so. You are mistress here, and the house is your domain,” he added, with a meaningful glance at the three upper servants just on the off chance they didn't fully appreciate that fact. “Feel free to make any changes you like.”

“I was just telling Mrs. Wells that one thing I am not going to change is my room,” she said. “It is perfect in every way, and it even has my favorite soap. Thank you, Ian.”

A pleasurable warmth washed over him, and it took him a moment to think of something to say. He lifted his fist to his mouth, cleared his throat, and in the most ordinary possible tone he could manage, he said, “Glad you like it, my dear. Now, if you will pardon me, I must meet with my steward. I shall leave you to contemplations of the household routine.” He bowed and started to leave, but she called him back.