Laura Kinsale (32 page)

And yet the words altogether escaped him. He was in dread that he would somehow say it wrong—almost everything he had said since he arrived at Swanmere had been wrong. And now from his first sentence she was already springing into a hostile answer. There had been, for a few moments, a fragile peace between them. A peace inside himself, walking through the house with Beth on his shoulders and Zenia at his side. It was the only time in his life he could remember that he had felt at home here.

He caressed his daughter’s warm neck with his fingertip. Poor Beth, locked up in two heated rooms. For her own good, by her devoted mother. He knew nothing of children, but he had felt such a kinship and pain, hearing those frenzied screams, that he had simply acted. Let her out of there. He looked at her mother and thought,
You don’t know your own daughter. You’ll lose her that way.

But he did not say that either. He had some sense.

In the end, he said nothing at all. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The night was catching up with him: Beth’s steady snores and the warm stream of afternoon light through the glass seemed like an invitation to serenity and sleep. He really did not want to fight with this person next to him; this beautiful black-and-ivory butterfly. He looked through his lashes at her and imagined her without the annoying cap and stiff bombazine. He tried for a moment to see Selim in her, but Selim was gone, cast forever into fantasy. Left somewhere far away, as Arabia was so far away that it seemed illusion now.

But Beth was solid and real in his arms. Her mother was sitting beside him. He imagined reaching out and drawing her close, into a circle of three.

He did not. He let himself drowse, while erotic images of her unbuttoning her dress to nurse drifted up unbidden in his mind. He felt her reach out and make some motherly adjustments to Beth’s collar. Her hand smoothed Beth’s hair. And he felt the brush of it, cool and soft as it whispered past his cheek.

He swallowed a silent moan of hunger. He wanted to turn his face into that white palm, kiss and caress it. He opened his eyes. She was leaning close, her fingers still on Beth’s hair.

He moved, just a little. Just enough to bring his mouth in contact with her where her fingertips nestled in Beth’s curls.

Their eyes met. For one instant, she did not draw back. And he felt a raw surge of lust, a passion to discover her, lay bare her body
now;
to take her on the floor as if it were the grass of a sun-dappled wood; as if by that he could learn the secret of her.

She turned her face, so that he could only see her profile. It was a modest move, but her hand drew away slowly, leaving him with honey-gold curls against his lips and a rage of desire in his blood.

He felt a huge distance between where he was and what he wanted, a rift that he did not know how to cross. Between his impulse to drown and bury himself in her and the pure, still contour of her cheek, the silence—an impossible reach. All the steps across that void were invisible to him, and so uncertain that any mistake would be the end. But he was burning all alone. He was going to do something wild if he stayed here.

He stood up abruptly, lifting Beth away from him, conveying her to her mother’s arms. “You’d better take her upstairs now.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and strode away. A quarter hour later, he was shouldering his rifle and heading for his target range beyond the old dovecote, where he spent the remaining daylight putting bullets through glass balls hurled from a trap, concentrating all his awareness on the gun’s report and kick, and the satisfying shatter of bursting glass.

Zenia was called down to speak to Mr. King in the hour before it was time to dress for dinner. He and Lord Belmaine rose as she entered. The earl set her chair in a position before the fire. He smiled and asked, with a surprising warmth, how Miss Elizabeth was faring now that she had quieted.

“She’s sleeping,” Zenia said. “There is yet no sign of an ague. I’m hopeful that she won’t take any fever.”

“Good,” Lord Belmaine said. “Good. I’m sure you have her throat well wrapped up.”

“Oh yes.”

He nodded. “Lady Winter is a devoted mother, Mr. King,” he said, sipping his green cordial.

“There is nothing so congenial to see as a mother’s sincere tenderness for her child,” the lawyer said.

Zenia felt again that small glow of gratification. She made a faint, bashful nod.

“With Miss Elizabeth’s welfare in mind,” Mr. King said, “we have a few tedious legal matters to dispose of.” He smiled at her. “Nothing complicated, but they will require your aid. For various reasons, it is a little worrisome that the written record of your marriage to Lord Winter has been lost.”

Zenia’s heart began to beat very quickly. She glanced at the earl, but he was also smiling, the tiny cordial glass clasped lightly between his hands.

“Of course, we could institute a search of all Arabia,” Mr. King said, with a cough that was possibly meant to be a laugh, “but by far the simpler remedy will be for you and Lord Winter to confirm your marriage by a ceremony conducted under English law. Then there is a bit of paperwork for Lord Winter, attesting that Miss Elizabeth is his daughter and he her legal guardian, which you agree to—and then all will be done up neat as a pin.”

They both looked at her with such blandly agreeable expressions that she was immediately suspicious. “I don’t understand,” she said, although she thought she did.

“Very simply, Lady Winter, you must marry your husband again,” the attorney said, with another peculiar cough.

She sat very straight in the chair. “Is this what—” She almost found her voice failing her. “Is it what Lord Winter wishes?”

“Yes. I spoke to him this morning, and he is in full agreement.”

But he was not here to tell her so himself. It was a lawyer and his father who called her in to tell her. She thought of what he had said to her today, that they must come to a settlement between them.

Was this what he had meant? Did he wish to marry her after all?

She would be safe then, she thought. His legal wife. A Christian wife, who could not be put away or divorced.

“Would that mean that I can never be separated from Elizabeth?” she blurted. “Or can he take her away from me as he said he could?”

“I’m sure no husband would ever wish to separate a devoted mother from her children,” Mr. King said.

Zenia knew a platitude when she heard one. The attorney looked at her with that small, unblinking, steady smile— and she thought,
You’re lying to me.

“I wish to do what is best for Elizabeth,” she said.

“Certainly you do.” The earl rose, reaching for the bottle of cordial. “Would you like some wine, my dear?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.” Then abruptly she stood also, turning to the fire. She frowned into the gleaming reflection of red coals on the silver fender. “My father is a barrister of Lincoln’s Inn, Mr. King. I do not think that I have any objection to doing what you ask, but if you please, I would like you to write it down for me, so that I may send it to him. I wish my father to advise me.”

She turned about. Mr. King had risen. “I would be happy to do so, madam. I think you will find him readily in agreement.”

“Yes,” she repeated slowly. “I believe that I have no objection to what you ask, but I wish my father to advise me.”

“Draft a letter immediately, Mr. King,” the earl said. “I will have it sent down to London tonight, so that Mr. Bruce may have it in the morning.”

“I must see it myself first,” Zenia said.

The earl’s brows lifted. He gave her another of the bland smiles, but this one had an edge to it. “Certainly, madam. I hope you don’t think anyone means to deceive or cheat you, merely because we wish to do everything possible to confirm you as my son’s wife. I hope it isn’t a position which you have found unbearable in your time with us?”

“No,” she whispered, daunted by the cool acid in his voice.

“I’m glad to hear it. I do not think Lord Winter is an entirely undesirable husband—but then I am his father, so perhaps I’m overly partial.”

“I will do nothing that means I may be separated from Elizabeth,” Zenia said.

“Will you make your daughter a bastard, Lady Winter?” the earl asked softly. “Because that is your alternate choice.”

She took an involuntary step back. “I wish my father to advise me.”

“That is perfectly acceptable. And if he advises any other course, I will be forced to think him a very great fool.” The earl made a stiff bow. “I think it is time for us to prepare for dinner. May I offer you my arm to the stairs, madam?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Zenia wore her lavender gown, with pearls instead of diamonds. It was the closest she could come to blue and gold. They said nothing to one another all through dinner. The earl spoke of politics to his son, which did not appear to be a topic that much interested Lord Winter, to judge by his terse replies.

His mother said that her dresser and the couturiere had arranged to be available to Zenia in the morning, to make a start on her new wardrobe in colors. Lord Winter made a little grimace at his plate—so brief that Zenia was not even sure that she had seen it.

In a short silence, he said suddenly, “I saw that you’ve let the carp pond fill.”

“Ah,” his father said, shaking his head. “Now there is a tragedy. Frozen down to the bottom in ‘36. Broke my heart. There were carp in that pond older than I am.”

“I remember,” Lord Winter said. “I used to feed them.” He looked up at Zenia. “They would come when one rang the bell.”

“Rye bread,” his father said. “They loved rye bread.”

Lord Winter sipped his wine. He set down the glass, turning it in his fingers. “I’ll take in hand to have it cleared and restocked, if you like.”
 

A fleeting expression of surprise crossed the earl’s face, but he smiled, covering it. “That is an excellent notion. Do you know—I suppose I don’t have the slightest conjecture as to where those fish came from. Never even thought to replace ‘em.”

“They’re Chinese. I can obtain some.”

“Indeed.” The earl’s pleasure suddenly turned guarded. “Not by going to damned Peking, I trust,” he said sharply.

“No, sir. Liverpool.”

“Eh?”

“The tea trade,” Lord Winter said.

“Ah, I see. Direct from China, then, by George. I should like that. Fish from China. I like to have little odd bits of faraway places about. If you look in the Italian Grotto down beside the carp pond, Lady Winter, you will see some very pretty shells that a fellow brought me from the South Seas. I had them plastered into the wall.”

“A veritable treasure trove of the world,” Lord Winter said, with a very faint smile at her.

Her pulse felt warm and haphazard when he looked at her so, as it had when his lips had brushed her fingers in Elizabeth’s hair. He looked at her as if they shared some silent understanding between them.

They shared Elizabeth between them. They had made Elizabeth. His body in hers, his mouth against her mouth.

She said the first thing that came into her mind. “Will you teach the carp to answer a bell?”

“You can do it,” he said. “You and Beth.”