Lord of Secrets (17 page)

It was only as he took in her look of astonishment that David realized it was the first time since the night he’d proposed that he’d reached out to her with anything resembling affection.

* * *

Though midsummer was fast approaching, bringing with it the longest day of the year, darkness had already fallen by the time their carriage pulled up before the front steps of Lyningthorp. Having so recently been ill, Rosalie was tired enough that she had to hide a yawn. “I believe I’ll go right up to bed, if you don’t mind.”

David gave her a languid smile as a footman opened the carriage door. “I’ll go up with you.”

Rosalie’s heart skipped. What did that mean? Was it an overture, or was she reading too much into the remark?

Inside, David paused only to collect a branch of candles from the console table in the hall before accompanying her to the stairs. They made their way up, then along the corridor to her bedroom. He stopped with her outside her door.

She turned to face him. He was standing very close, only inches from her, holding the candles aloft in his left hand. Her pulse beat faster. How handsome he looked in his evening clothes! The amber light of the candles flickered in his dark eyes, waking an answering flicker of excitement within her. She held her breath. Would he kiss her good-night?

Instead he raised his right hand—a bit unsteadily, it appeared—and caressed the base of her throat. “You have a very pretty
supraclavicular
fossa
.” At her questioning look, he said, “It’s Latin for ‘the hollow above the little key.’ Anatomically speaking, this—” he paused to sweep his fingers lightly over her collarbone, “—is your little key.”

She laughed, though his touch made her shiver. “I do believe you’re tipsy, David.”

“A trifle bosky,” he agreed with a lopsided smile. “Melton keeps a fine cellar.”

His hand lingered against her skin. She gazed up at him expectantly. His fingertips were warm, and there was none of the tenseness about him she was used to seeing.

He leaned in and kissed her. She was still not entirely sure how much experience he had with women—what should she make of a man as mercurial as David, or a wedding night like the one they’d passed?—but he kissed her as if he knew every secret every woman had ever kept. The kiss deepened, and his hand slid possessively from the base of her throat and up her neck, a slow caress that ended with his palm cradling the back of her head.

She opened her mouth, and his tongue stroked hers. She detected no doubt, no hesitation, no uncertainty—just expertise coupled with a strong dose of desire. She tasted it on him, tasted the sensuality and the sexual attraction, more intoxicating than Robert Melton’s claret. It was only half an embrace, since David’s left hand still held the candelabrum aloft, but it made her heart race and a rush of heat warm her from the tips of her breasts to the place between her legs.

Had she really been tired, riding home in the carriage? She’d never felt so awake before. She clung hungrily to his shoulders, her breasts pressed tight against the broad expanse of his chest, her hips tilting against his.

David’s eyes were closed. They went on kissing, and he grew hard against her, a reaction her aunt Whitwell had explained in detail on the eve of her wedding. In a flash of belated understanding, Rosalie realized why he’d pushed her away that time they’d kissed aboard the
Neptune’s
Fancy
. An iron length strained against the black wool of his tight-fitting pantaloons, as insistent as it was undeniable. First on the ship, now here—and not even in her bedroom, but in the semi-public space of the corridor. He did want her, he
must
want her.

With a surge of excitement, she broke off their kiss to gulp for air. He nuzzled her neck, dropping his hand from where he’d buried it in her hair to the low neckline of her evening gown. She almost breathed his name—
oh
,
David
—but she was afraid to break the spell. With practiced assurance, he slipped his hand into the top of her gown, pressing a kiss to her throat at the same time. The thin silk of her bodice rustled as his fingers teased her nipple into a taut peak. A jolt of desire lanced through her, raw and hot.

She was so ready for this. She wanted to moan, to open the door of her bedroom and pull him inside, to tear off his elegant and no doubt staggeringly expensive suit of evening clothes and drop them in a wrinkled heap on the floor. She wanted to get a good look at his body, naked and hard with need. She wanted to run her hands over every inch of his bare flesh, his skin and his muscles and that rigid, demanding part of him. More than that, she wanted the thrill and the closeness of having him inside her.

Carefully, cautiously, she reached for the doorknob. The slight inclination of her body led David to follow suit, and the branch of candles he was holding tilted a fraction—just enough to allow hot wax to drip from the candles and onto his hand.

He straightened with a quick hiss of indrawn breath.

It was over. Whatever charm had been at work, whatever trance David had fallen into, he snapped out of it with startling suddenness. Instantly, his expression changed from one of flushed desire to a look of dismay.

“Come inside,” she said quickly. “You can put down the candles and we’ll—”

He took a step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...you’ve been ill.”

“No, don’t say that. I’m perfectly fine!” Oh, how could she plunge so quickly from leaping excitement to flat despair? Everything had felt so good, so right. He’d actually
wanted
her. “It was wonderful, David, really.”

“I had too much wine with dinner tonight.” He shook his head. “I’m
drunk
.”

“No you’re not. Not really. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter when we both want—”

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Still holding the candles, he started for his room without so much as a backward glance, leaving Rosalie standing alone at her door in the dark.

Chapter Fourteen

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green...
But out, alack! He was but one hour mine...

—
William Shakespeare

Sipping her breakfast chocolate as David drank his tea, Rosalie gazed out the morning room window at the sunlit garden. She was trying her best not to think about the night before, not to dwell on the kiss outside her bedroom or the lowering frustration of having spent another night alone. And David, as far as she could tell, was doing the same. Neither of them had said a word about it, but he kept stealing glances at her over the rim of his teacup, glances that appeared simultaneously hunted and apologetic.

Reminding herself that she’d pledged to let him set the pace in their marriage, she suppressed a sigh and focused instead on the garden outside. Warblers, thrushes and greenfinches sang in a chorus from the trees, and butterflies flitted from one spring bloom to the next. During her years of travel, she’d missed the gentle warmth and green pathways of England. Whether in the shimmering heat of Egypt, the sweltering tropical air of the West Indies or the biting cold of Canada, she’d remembered with longing her mother’s rose arbor at Beckford Park. It remained the touchstone by which Rosalie judged all other places. And today, the view from the morning room window not only met that standard, it exceeded it.

David set his cup down in its saucer. “Something tells me you’re itching to be outdoors. I’ve already finished the day’s business with my steward. How are you feeling—strong enough now for us to take a walk together?”

Was he trying to atone for the night before? She dragged her eyes from the view to smile in his direction. “Definitely strong enough. I’m completely recovered, I promise, and I’d love to go walking with you.”

“As a boy, I spent many an hour exploring the hills behind the house. The highest commands a fine prospect of Lyningthorp and the valley beyond. We could take the path to the top, if you don’t think it would be too taxing for you.”

Oh, yes, he was definitely trying. Too often, he treated her with a well-bred but slightly distant courtesy, as if his civilities were a suit of armor he put on to conceal and safeguard his real feelings. His offer now held no such remoteness. “That sounds lovely.”

Some half an hour later, they were ready to set out. Rosalie wished David wouldn’t go about looking so handsome all the time, not when she was already aching to be his wife in more than name only. Though he was dressed in neat but unassuming country attire—a dark blue coat, buckskins and top boots—he somehow managed to look fitter and more polished than any man had a right to look.

In her own concession to the sunny day and the ambitious walk, she’d dressed in half boots and a morning dress of lavender muslin. She’d chosen the gown for comfort, though Bridger had endorsed the selection with enthusiasm. It wasn’t particularly stylish, and it certainly wasn’t elegant, but at least the color suited her, and hadn’t David said he could find fashionable, heartless sophisticates on any street corner in Mayfair?

The weather was every bit as fine as the view from the window had promised. As they made their way to the hills behind the house, David told her about the conversation he and Robert Melton had shared during her brief visit to the nursery with Mrs. Melton.

Rosalie listened, not troubling to hide her surprise when he reached the end of his account. “So when you believed the neighbors disapproved of you—that was all nothing but a misunderstanding?”

David made a rueful face. “A bit more than that, for I can’t deny I added my own fuel to the fire. When I thought myself
persona
non
grata
, I stood all the more on my dignity. We Linneys have a regrettable streak of pride in our makeup, I’m afraid. The more aloof I appeared, the more my neighbors kept their distance, and the more they kept their distance, the more aloof I appeared. It was a vicious circle.”

“Oh, David, what a waste.”

“Yes, well...” With a shrug, he dismissed more than twenty years of pain and rejection as if they were a mere trifle. “It’s behind me now. Though I daresay I might never have realized as much if you hadn’t pushed me to dine with the Meltons, my dear.”

Rosalie glowed with satisfaction, both because she’d done something useful at last, and because his
my
dear
sounded different than it had before. She was used to hearing him pronounce the words as a polite endearment, kind but not entirely effortless. This time, they’d rolled off his tongue with gratifying ease.

As they started up the hill, David glanced about with a reflective air. “I’ve lived in these parts all my life, but I’ve never been popular here.” His tone was more nostalgic than resentful. “Neither with my neighbors, nor with the cottagers in the estate village. But I misunderstood the reason why.”

“I did notice as we drove through the high street on our wedding day that the villagers seemed...less than hospitable. But they were warming to you quickly enough in the Bridgers’ cottage.”

“And how much more quickly might they have warmed to me if I hadn’t waited ten years to show an interest in them?” He shook his head. “I had no idea what life for them was really like. No,
I’ve
been the inhospitable one, and they’ve simply taken their cues from my manner. But I mean to change that, my dear, with your help.”

Yes, the endearment definitely sounded different today. “What can I do?”

“Call on our tenants and cottagers when they’re sick. Keep abreast of their news. Just learning their names would be an excellent start.”

“Oh, that’s all easy enough.”

“It is for
you
.”

Rosalie didn’t like to hear him talking that way. He could be congenial enough when he wished to be. Dinner with the Meltons should have taught him that much. “And for you, too, David, when you make the effort.”

He was silent a moment, considering, before he slanted a glance her way. “We’ll see. I’m making a few improvements in the village now. That should give me excuse enough to show my face there. Perhaps, with time, a little of your goodwill may rub off on me.”

Rosalie’s heart lifted. He really did need her. She hugged the knowledge joyfully to herself.

As they made their way up the hill, the fern-lined trail narrowed, requiring them to walk single file. The path snaked between hornbeam and pine, sunlight filtering through the tree branches and throwing dappled shadows on the hard-packed earth. Though the slope was gentle, David frequently reached out to help her over uneven ground. She knew the gesture was one of chivalry rather than attraction, but a thrill nevertheless ran through her each time his hand met her elbow. At least he was willing to touch her now, something he’d been noticeably reluctant to do before.

Three-quarters of the way up the hill, the path widened enough to permit them to walk side by side again. “I hope the climb isn’t too taxing for you,” David said.

“Not at all. I nearly forgot I’d been ill, and I like the exercise. When my father and I were traveling we used to cover much rougher terrain than this, trekking to some truly impressive heights.”

“Ah, I should have remembered to whom I was speaking.” He smiled. “No doubt you’ve seen the Pyrenees, the Sierra Nevada and the Alps—and likely all on the same expedition.”

She laughed. “Exactly so! David, did you know that on a clear day, one can see the Alps from the coast of Venice? Despite hours and hours of studying the globes as a girl, I had no idea until I saw the sight for myself. One thinks of the Alps as being so cold and forbidding and land-locked, and Venice as so golden and exotic, there in the warm Adriatic.”

“I would love to see Venice.” David’s voice held a note of wistfulness. “I envy those who came of age before the war, when it was still the custom to undertake the Grand Tour. I’m no great explorer, to be sure, but I would gladly suffer the inconveniences of travel to go there.”

“Well then, we must go. You would love Venice—splendid palaces, the quaintest little bridges and alleyways, artwork and churches and marvelously exotic architecture everywhere one turns. I remember our guide was sick one day, and Papa and I tried to get along without him, only to find ourselves quite lost—until Papa pointed out the white marble footprints in the bridge ahead, and said, ‘Never fear, my child, we’ve been lost here before.’” She smiled. “I never minded being lost in Venice, because it has the strangest dreamlike quality. Everything is so graceful and golden, and instead of roads and horses and carriages, there are canals everywhere one looks, with gondolas gliding smoothly under stone bridges. It felt as if we’d traveled to a strange new world where earth had been replaced by water, and all of life was somehow more tranquil.”

“
La
Serenissima
they call it, no? The Most Serene.” He stretched out a hand to help her over a fallen tree branch. Her heart gave a foolish, utterly unsophisticated bound at the mere touch of his fingers on the bared skin of her arm.

“And Florence, David!” She looked up at him eagerly. “There’s so much to see there, too—the famous Duomo, and all its marvelous sculptures, and the palace of the Medici. It astonished me how friendly the Florentines were. A young man with a puppet followed me all about the Piazza Santa Croce, with the puppet speaking the most amusing stream of Italian all the while.”

“He was probably flirting with you.”

“Do you think so?” She laughed at the notion. “You would adore Florence. It has such a look of the Renaissance, one expects to find a Shakespearean duke strutting across every square. And you speak Italian, so you could come to my aid if I should meet with any more impertinent puppets.”

“Then we really must go there some day, so you can show me all these wonders.”

“Oh, yes. Could we? I’m certain you wouldn’t regret it. You could even see the inspiration for another of my father’s puns.”

“Not another pun...is it as bad as all the rest?”

She laughed. “I’m afraid so. On which river are boats the scarcest? You may spare yourself the trouble of puzzling it out, for I’ll tell you—the Arno, for they’re Arno boats there.”

“Oh, gad.” He pulled a comically pained face.

She giggled, more at his reaction than at the joke itself. “I know. It was one of Papa’s worst, and therefore an enduring favorite.”

They’d reached the top of the hill. “Well,” David said, turning about slowly with a sweep of one arm, “the scenery here can hardly compare to a Venetian palace or a Florentine river, but I did promise you a splendid prospect of the house and countryside...”

Rosalie wheeled to survey the view. Her breath caught in her throat. The fairy-tale towers and brick wings of Lyningthorp stood below them, the house’s ornamental lake, walled rose garden and formal walks lending added charm to the surrounding parkland. Beyond the park lay timber and shaded valley, then the estate village, then wide green meadows, and, finally, hills that faded to blue sky in the distance. Sheep dotted one far-off field, so small from her vantage point she could barely make them out, while the white spire of a church rose above the treetops beyond the valley.

Her heart gave a euphoric squeeze. “Oh, David! It’s
beautiful
.”

He seemed pleased by her reaction. “Not so magnificent as an Alpine vista, to be sure, but it has an appeal all its own.”

They stood side by side, and after a time she sensed he was no longer looking out at the view, but was instead gazing at her. Delight gave way to something different, a curious mixture of anticipation and desire. Her skin tingled. She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I like it better than the Alps.”

Would it embarrass him if she told him how much it meant to her, his sharing this? She was already in love with Lyningthorp. It had been mere hours since she’d spoken to Mrs. Epperson about the servants’ whispering, but already the oppressive silence was lifting. And she was quickly coming to recognize the names and faces of the people around her.

She had a real home at last, a place of safety and permanence. She could speak of travel now with pleasure, confident such a trip would represent only a short break in the pattern of her everyday life, and not some restless, unceasing journey. And all thanks to David.

With a sigh of contentment, she sat down to rest on a broad, flat rock. To her surprise, he settled himself on the grass at her feet. Rosalie looked askance at him. He was going to ruin his clothes. Curbing the urge to say so, she opted instead to study him in repose.

The first time she’d laid eyes on David, boarding the
Neptune’s
Fancy
on a raw March day in New York Harbor, he’d impressed her as austere and rather forbidding. Here in the sunshine, however, lolling back in his country clothes, he looked as approachable as her cousin Charlie. Mr. Melton had spoken of the famous Linney hauteur, and David himself had alluded to it more than once, but Rosalie could detect no sign of it in him now as she took in his relaxed sprawl and contented half smile. Get him away from the world for a while, and he became a changed man.