Susan Carroll (26 page)

A breeze scudded across the surface of the
pond, rippling the waters, and raising gooseflesh upon her bare
skin. Phaedra shivered, then kicked her feet beneath her and
dog-paddled for the bank.

Hauling herself out, Phaedra flopped into the
cool grass, waiting for the moisture on her skin to dry before
dressing again. She plucked a blade of grass and stroked it across
her cheek, peering at her reflection in the water. With her hair
sprayed across her bare shoulders in fiery rivelets, her wide green
eyes haunting her pale face, she looked like some lonely sprite
trapped beneath the surface of the water.

She stirred the blade through the reflection,
dispelling her image into a myriad of shimmering ripples.

Very well, then. Maybe she would admit it.
She was lonely. Why else would she have responded so eagerly to
Armande's caresses, gone so willingly to his bed? At times she felt
starved for affection-and there was so much about Armande that was
perfect.

Too perfect, she thought uneasily. Beyond his
skill as a lover, and the enticement of his lean, dangerous
profile, he knew how to be kind and gentle. Her longing for that
was as keen as her longing to be loved. Armande seemed to
understand so much of what she felt. Add to that the fact that he
didn't want her to be a simpering fool, that he respected the power
of her mind and admired her for it-as long as she didn't ask too
many questions. Phaedra was glad she remembered that. It might save
her from regret.

She rolled over on her side, peering upward
to where the sun peeked through the leaves. It must be past noon,
she thought dully. By now he must be gone. She suddenly hated the
whispery shadows of the leaves, stealing away the sunshine.

Sitting up, she hugged her bare knees. She
wondered if it were really so important to her what Armande called
himself. Did it truly matter what his real name or what secrets he
kept? She was struck by an unexpected memory of Eliza Wilkins, the
woman's willingness to risk her life, her security, all to follow
her husband Tom wherever he went. "Because I love him," Eliza had
said in her quiet way. Phaedra had not understood then, but maybe
now, she did, just a little.

If she ever did see Armande again-

Phaedra was startled by the snap of a twig.
She tensed, glancing about her, but the copse was silent, the only
movement the rustle of a leaf. All the same, she had the
uncomfortable sensation of being spied upon.

Without making obvious her nervousness,
Phaedra reached for her clothes. She scrambled into her petticoats
and was lacing the corset across her bosom when she heard another
snap, followed by the crunch of boots. Someone was there.

Phaedra whirled around, clasping her gown in
front of her breasts, preparing to scream for help if necessary.
She tensed at the sight of the tall man stalking past the bushes.
Her lips rounded into a weak oh.

She gaped at Armande, attired for riding in a
plain brown frock coat and tan breeches protected by spatterdashes.
His silky dark hair was back in a neat queue. Her heart set up such
a hammering, she could do little more than stare at him. "I-I
thought you'd gone."

He dug the toe of one boot into the ground,
avoiding her eyes. Never had he looked less the picture of a
polished marquis. Fingering the brim of his cocked hat, he said
"How could I-after we parted so abruptly? We never truly said
farewell."

She thought they had said nigh everything
there was to say. He swore he didn't want to hurt her, yet he
seemed determined to prolong this parting and make it as painful as
possible.

He moved to the edge of the pond, staring
moodily down at his own image, the reflection as mysterious and
elusive as Armande himself. Phaedra turned her back on him. With
unsteady jerks, she strove to finish lacing the front of her
bodice.

"How long have you been watching me?" she
blurted out.

"Too long for my peace of mind," came his
strained reply.

"Damnation!" She had tangled one of the
lacings, snarling it into a hopeless knot. She yanked on the
ribbon, tearing the delicate silk. Whipping around, she said, “Why
did you have to come looking for me? Why didn't you just go!"

He glanced up at her, his eyes rife with
misery. "I can't," he said hoarsely. "I think I am falling in love
with you."

He spoke with such quiet simplicity she could
not doubt he meant it. The words seemed wrung from the depths of
his heart. Something he had said the first night they had met
echoed through her mind. She replied a shaky laugh, "How amusing. I
was thinking the exact same about you. "

Phaedra never knew how her trembling legs
carried her across the clearing, but suddenly she was flinging
herself into Armande's arms with a force that nearly tumbled them
both into the pond.

"Phaedra," he groaned, burying his face
against her neck. "What a selfish bastard I am. I tried to tear
myself away. I swear, somehow I will manage to make sure you never
have cause to hate me."

"Hush, love." Her fingers tangled in his
hair. "Everything will be all right."

It was a rash pledge to make when she had no
idea what everything was. But nothing mattered to her except that
he would not vanish from her life. At this moment, she could
imagine no greater pain than that.

His mouth burned against hers as they sank
down and tumbled into the grass. There was no hint of the
accomplished lover in the way Armande fumbled with her clothes. He
nearly tore her petticoats in his haste to disrobe her, she nearly
doing the same to his cravat and coat. Their bodies bared, they
came together, flesh to flesh, in a kind of fierce desperation. It
was as though they were both aware of how close they would always
be to losing each other, forever hovering on the brink of some dark
calamity. They had to seize what precious moments the begrudging
fates would allow.

Their passion rose and swelled in a heated
rush, leaving them spent with exhaustion. Even then, Phaedra held
Armande inside her for as long as she could, as if drawing back
would allow all the shadows of secrecy to creep between them.

"Phaedra," he murmured. "How have I ever
managed to live without you? I feel like a man who has been lost in
an endless winter. And you are the blazing sun."

He rolled onto his side, still holding her
against him. She gazed up at him "I have never been anyone's
blazing sun before." She laughed. "Although Grandfather complains
most fiercely about the color of my hair."

"He's a fool!" She was startled by the
harshness of his voice when speaking of Sawyer. But he smiled,
softening his tone as he slipped back into his French accent, "Your
hair is glorious,
ma belle
. You would have driven Titian mad
with the longing to paint-"

She laid her fingers across the curve of his
lips, stopping him. The love they dared speak of was yet new. But
Phaedra knew with dread certainty, two things which would put the
tenuous bond between them at risk.

"I want to exchange a promise with you," she
said solemnly.

Despite the tender light in Armande's eyes,
one brow shot up in an expression that was as wary as it was
questioning. Nonetheless, she continued, "I promise to ask no more
questions that you cannot answer if you will pledge-"

She felt Armande tense.

"You pledge that there will be no more
ma
belle
or
ma chere
, no more playing the French marquis.
Not when we are alone together-like this."

For one moment, she feared he would refuse
her even that much honesty. Then, he relaxed. "Very well. My
beautiful Phaedra."

He laughed and pulled her close for another
long and satisfying kiss that set the seal to their promises ...
promises that could never be kept.

Phaedra slipped back to the house much later
in a far different mood than when she had fled from it earlier. She
sought out the backstairs, humming snatches of outrageous Irish
ditties she had learned from Gilly-songs no lady ever ought to
know. But then, she had never looked less like a lady than she did
now. Anyone who saw her would guess what she had been doing in the
sweet smelling grass by the pond.

Armande's passion might well have been
stamped upon her face for all to see. She could feel her skin
glowing, how tender her mouth was from the force of his kisses, her
hair tumbled about her like some wild-eyed gypsy's. It was as well
she encountered none of the servants, for she could not have
concealed the tumult of her emotions.

Armande said he loved her. His unexpected
declaration filled her with wonder. She had never thought to hear
those words from any man, certainly not the icy Marquis de Varnais.
Ah, but he was not the marquis, and whoever he might be, it was
enough to know him as the man who loved her, whom she loved in
return. She would make it enough.

Even living on the edge of this precipice was
preferable to the lonely existence she had known before Armande
came. Now she reveled in the riotous thrum of her pulses, the
excitement tingling through her veins. The crash might come,
bringing in its wake a despair darker than she ever had known. But
it wasn't coming today.

Armande loved her, her, Phaedra. Not ‘Lord
Ewan's relict.’ Not her grandfather’s heiress. Herself. She skipped
toward her room so blithely that for a moment she might well still
have been that barefoot little girl from Donegal. She barely noted
that the door to her bedchamber stood ajar until she bounded across
the threshold. She nearly collided with the grim figure of Hester
Searle.

A gasp, half of fright, half of annoyance,
escaped Phaedra. She drew back in a gesture as reflexive as
shrinking from a repulsive toad. "What are you doing in here?"

Even though she towered over the housekeeper
by a full head, it was she who felt at a disadvantage as Hester's
beadlike eyes took in Phaedra's mud-stained skirts, studying her
flushed face. A soured expression twisted Hester's pinched
visage.

"I've been checking on the housemaids to make
sure as yer rooms be cleaned proper. It scarce happens by magic, ye
know."

“Or by witchcraft. Phaedra offered her a
too-sweet-smile. “I am quite satisfied with condition of my room,
so you may go.” Not even Madame Pester should be allowed to spoil
her happiness this day. She stalked past the woman to her
wardrobe.

“If I have intruded, I am sorry.” Hester
sneered. “I had no idea yer ladyship would be wishful of changing
clothes at this hour of the day.”

Phaedra yanked open the wardrobe door,
searching through the silks for a fresh gown. "One usually does
after slipping on the wet grass and taking a tumble." She
immediately despised herself for offering any explanation of her
disheveled state. She was not obliged to render an accounting to
the likes of Hester Searle.

Hester stooped to pick up some blades of
grass that had dropped from Phaedra's petticoats. Crushing them
between her crooked fingers, she said, "I've just put the maids up
to doing the bed in the marquess's room. Do ye reckon he will be
needing to change his garb, as well?"

There was no mistaking the insinuation in
Hester's voice. Phaedra flushed.

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" she
snapped. She snatched a sacque back gown of peach-colored silk from
the wardrobe and stormed into the powdering room to change,
slamming the door behind her.

That Searle creature was going to push
someone too far one of these days. She only hoped she was there to
see it. The woman could not have made the connection between
herself and Armande unless her prying eyes had been at work again.
Perhaps the woman had been listening at the keyhole last night when
she and Armande had made love. Phaedra suppressed the thought, the
mere suspicion of such a thing enough to make her feel quite
ill.

She tugged off the soiled gown without
summoning Lucy to aid her. Searle's suspicions had been bad enough
without her maid wondering why her mistress returned from a
morning's walk with her corset strings all tangled in knots.

As Phaedra struggled into the peach silk, she
thought of Hester's spiteful expression with increasing
dissatisfaction. It occurred to her that the woman's penchant for
spying could present a real danger to Armande. Hester might search
through Phaedra's bedchamber as much as she liked. All of Phaedra's
secrets were carefully locked away in the garret. But could Armande
say the same for his? She thought of the wooden casket he kept in
plain view upon his dressing table. One of Hester's hairpins might
be enough to pry it open. She ought to warn him.

Phaedra's lips curled into a wry smile. After
trying so hard to expose him herself, it was rather ironic she
should now seek to protect him. Being enamored of a man made a
great many changes in one's perception. If love was not precisely
blind, it did render one far more willing to look at things a
different way.

Still smiling, thinking of Armande, Phaedra
rustled back into the bedchamber. To her displeasure, Searle was
still there. The woman stood smoothing the lengths of Phaedra's
ivory counterpane, although the bed had already been made up by one
of the maids. Hester's rough fingertips snagged on the satin
brocade, a brooding expression darkening her features.

How out of place, in her stiff, black
bombazine, the wizened creature looked amid the lace and frills of
Phaedra's bedchamber. Phaedra frowned, the image of Hester
caressing her bedclothes somehow disconcerting, like the shadow of
death passing through a bride's bower.

"I told you, you can go, Mrs. Searle," she
said in her frostiest accents. Not waiting to see the command
obeyed, Phaedra swept over to her dressing table. Settling herself
into the gilt carved chair, she pulled up the mirror and began
brushing the tangles from hair.